


All Mixed Up

by CaffeineGinger



Series: Robin Remix [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Batfamily (DCU), Bittersweet, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Gen, Orphan Tim Drake, accidental family acquisition, but don't worry it's just the first fic, do not copy to another site, no beta we die like robins, there are no robins... yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:07:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineGinger/pseuds/CaffeineGinger
Summary: Gotham has a vigilante - they call him the Batman. He fights crime, wears all black, and (everybody knows) he works alone.Tim Drake lives next door to local celebrity Bruce Wayne. He has always been a serious kid; the kind who sees much, and says little. Then, his parents are killed.These things are [not] related.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: Robin Remix [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680724
Comments: 86
Kudos: 384





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Like a Robin reversal, but I decided to pick whatever order I wanted - so I guess that makes this a remix? Anyway, let me know what you think :)  
> UPDATE 22.12.2020 - finally edited the later chapters for grammar/missing bits. whoops.

Tim is not entirely sure how it happened. He can recall the entire series of events perfectly, but that doesn't mean he _understands_ it. Even before the officers showed up at his school, even before they stood in front of him in the counselor’s office, faces grave, standing as if they wished for uniform caps they could doff in solemn respect, he knew. 

It was more than just being called into the guidance office; it was more than the whispering of teachers in the halls, the student pulled abruptly out of his geography class; more than the last minute sub of the art teacher for AP English, so distracted she didn’t even try to keep them on topic.

The TV was on in the front office, tuned to GWN. The news ticker at the bottom was announcing the latest catastrophe, a ‘bombing in downtown Gotham’. The secretary wasn’t even looking at the feed; instead, her wide eyes focused on the mostly-closed door to the counselor’s office - at least, until he cleared his throat. 

“Timothy Drake?” the mouse-like woman asked. At his nod, she gestured. “They’re waiting for you in there.”

He stole one last glance at the news. Even before his eyes took in the subtitles of the silent broadcast, even before they caught on the words ‘Drake Industries,’ he knew. 

He stepped inside the office. The counselor, a young woman who’d started in the middle of the school year, stood behind her desk, looking distinctly ill-at-ease. He briefly noticed this, before turning his attention to the officers.

“My parents… did either of them make it?” he asked. His voice sounded level; it had been a few years since the time when it tended to crack at the most inopportune moments. Not that anyone would have judged him for it, in this case. 

The portly officer gave him a look of surprise. The younger one failed to hide his wince and, when neither of them rushed to reassure him, Tim knew he had his answer. He swallowed. 

Tim had questions. So many questions, not the least of which were ‘what happened’, and ‘how many dead?” He suspected it was too soon for anyone to have that information, though, much less the beat cops sent out to families - and there must be quite a few of them, if it was as bad as it looked. So he said nothing, just listened as they made the official notification in stilted tones. 

Mrs. Mac arrived not long after that. Tim suspected she was on her way as soon as she saw the news, long before they ever released a single name. “They’re gone,” he said, just two simple words. She sucked in a breath, but otherwise didn’t give any sign of her surprise. It seemed right, to Tim, that she would know, too. The woman who had at times been his housekeeper, cook, chauffeur, chaperone, and - grudgingly - parent-teacher conference stand-in clasped him on the shoulder. 

The guidance counselor’s face flashed through a series of expressions, like she wanted to say something. But the woman was new, not even two months into the job. Looking back, he doesn’t know if the Drake name stopped her, or if it was the fact that she was an out-of-towner, likely still reeling with the realization of just what she’d signed up for when she took a job in Gotham. 

Maybe, if she had said something, someone would have remembered that Timothy Jackson Drake was now an orphan. That, perhaps, just letting him leave with the family housekeeper - for all that she was listed as authorized in his file - wasn’t the most proper course of action. But they didn't, not when Mrs. Mac signed him out, not when she informed the school's secretary that he would not return for the rest of the week.

Maybe, if Mr. White, the Drake family lawyer, had not just arrived to give his condolences when Mrs. Mac got word her daughter-in-law went into labor. Maybe if Mr. White had not assumed the older woman would be back, after he and Tim ate the casserole she pulled out of the oven before the call came in. Maybe, if Tim didn’t wake up the next morning, still in shock but with a plan that had coalesced sometime in the night. If he hadn’t immediately called a taxi to take him to the offices of White, Brocklehurst, and Groen, hadn’t been shown in as soon as he gave his name. If he hadn’t quizzed his family’s - and his family’s company’s - lawyers over the state of D.I., what measures were being taken to find the bomber. If he had not demanded to know what was being done for the employees that had been wounded, the dependents of those who had been killed, before finally, _finally_ springing the idea of emancipation on the man. 

Maybe if Gerald White had any children of his own, or if he had a little _less_ in common with the late Jack Drake; if he was less prone to getting caught up in his work, to wax poetic to anyone who expressed the slightest interest. Maybe then it wouldn’t have happened as it did. 

Maybe Timothy Drake, son of the late Jack and Janet Drake, wouldn’t have been facing a social worker for the first time on the day of his parent’s wake, feeling vaguely queasy from the smell of the canapes that seemed more appropriate for a gala than a funeral reception - even one organized by a premier event coordinator for a wealthy, influential couple such as the Drakes.

“Timothy Drake? My name is Rebekah Adams, with social services. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

He had stepped away from the receiving line for a minute, telling Mr. White that he needed a drink and to use the restroom. In reality, he just needed to get away from the endless chorus of ‘your father was a great man’, and ‘your mother was an amazing woman’. (Did they really think he needed to be told that? That it had evaded him, all these years? He didn’t have to be particularly _close_ to his parents to know they were incredible at what they did.)

But he’d stepped into the bathroom anyway, stared at his face in the mirror for a long moment before washing his hands and patting them dry. Then he’d made his way to where the refreshment table had been set up, in a front room of the Drake home. He poured himself a coffee with steady hands, adding a splash of cream for good measure. He was just about to take his first sip when the woman spoke.

“I’m sorry this is the first you are hearing from us. Your case seems to have slipped through the cracks, until now,” she offered, not unkindly. 

“I understand. It is Gotham,” Tim said, with a sort of ‘what can you do’ shrug of his shoulders. 

She gave a pained-sounding chuckle in reply. “Yes. It is. Anyway, I’m so sorry to spring this on you - now, of all times - but I need to talk to you about your living situation, moving forward.”

Tim’s eyes were scanning the room, briefly pausing on a commotion that seemed to be spilling from the foyer. For once, his usually quick mind was slow on the uptake. “My living situation?” 

“Yes,” she said, and something about the insufficiently concealed impatience in her voice made his eyes snap back to her face. His stomach dropped toward his feet, just as it finally occurred to Tim why she was there. If Tim hadn’t spent years conditioning himself not to curse while at home, where Mrs. Mac might hear, he might have said something... rash. 

“I understand, after your parents’ death, you have no other living relatives. And if they named a god-parent or guardian in the event of their death, he or she has yet to step forward. As we cannot responsibly allow you to live on your own until you come of age...”

Tim’s mind whirled, trying to figure out how he managed to overlook something this huge. Although Mr. White assured him the emancipation was all but guaranteed, the lawyer still had paperwork to file, a hearing to schedule. And in the meantime, social services wasn’t just there to check on him; this ‘Ms. Adams’ was going to want to put him in foster care, or - more likely, considering the number of fosters available for teens his age - a state home. 

And Tim - he understood, really. For most kids, most _orphans_ his age, it would have even been the right move. She couldn’t know that Tim had more-or-less been taking care of himself for much longer than the last week. Or, well - doing so with Mrs. Mac’s help. Speaking of - 

“But I’m not alone,” he tried reassuring the social worker. If he’d had more time to think it through, he might have held off, but he was busy scolding himself mentally for not having the forethought to prevent this very situation. 

Ms. Adams’ red lips tightened infinitesimally, but her voice remained patient and calm. As if reading his mind, she said, “I’m afraid any employees of your parents are not considered valid guardians by the state. Not until, and unless, they produce legal documentation to the contrary. If you have a particular guardian in mind, you and I would, of course, include them in our conversation. Is there... somebody that fits that bill?” she asked.

If Tim had only planned ahead, this would hardly be a problem. He’s sure if he talked to Mr. White, to Mrs. Mac, they could have pulled something together to stave off social services until the emancipation went through. But he didn’t, and it was probably too late to invent an uncle. 

He never consciously _decided_ what to say next. Only, when his panicked gaze landed on the man, Tim suddenly inferred the cause of the commotion by the door. After all, while a good third of the ‘mourners’ in the place probably showed up only to talk business, another third likely drove out to Bristol exclusively for the chance of spotting the local celebrity, and there he was: 

“Bruce Wayne.”

The social worker’s eyes grew wide in shock, and she whirled to track Tim’s gaze. The teen tensed, mentally scrambling for a way to take back the words, to say ‘sorry, that wasn’t an answer to your question, just an observation. Oh, by the way, I’ll be staying with my Aunt Marie?’ 

But then Bruce Wayne ducked into the room with them, probably drawn by the refreshments. And then Rebekah Adams started forward, making for him like a woman on a mission. 

_(Tim vaguely remembers trailing after her, preparing to deal with fallout: anger, no doubt, when Mr. Wayne corrected the assumption, perhaps embarrassing her with a loud chuckle at the mistake. He remembers all the words they spoke, but in his head he knows he must have gotten something mixed up, because no matter how he tries to reconstruct the conversation, the outcome hardly seems plausible.)_

"Mr. Wayne. My name is Rebekah Adams," the social worker introduced herself with a proffered hand. And Bruce, perhaps inured to such blatant ambush by years of serving as the summit of every social climber's ambition, hardly missed a beat.

"Ah, Ms. Adams, how nice to see you again. Where do I know you from? Hang on, don't tell me, I never forget a pretty face," he said with a slight leer.

Tim hid his grimace at the 'Brucie' routine - even as a kid, he never understood how the adults around him bought into what was so obviously an act.

"I'm Timothy Drake's caseworker, from social services," Ms. Adams started to explain, before 'Brucie' Wayne snapped his fingers: 

"Ah, I've got it. That fundraiser last month, the Martha Wayne Foundation for Families Annual Children-in-Need Gala, I'm sure we met there?"

"Um, no, actually I -"

"But of course, you must have more important things to do, actually helping all those families - what am I thinking. I admire all the great work you do."

_(At some point, Tim knows, he closed his eyes to brace himself for the inevitable - perhaps that is when he missed something, some key observation, that would enable him to make sense of how it happened.)_

_(He remembers starting when a warm hand clasped his shoulder, looking up into Bruce's face which, for once, bore no trace of the vacant socialite's mask.)_

"Son, I'm so sorry for your loss," Bruce said. "If you want to talk…"

"Th-thanks, Mr. Wayne."

"Just Bruce is fine, Tim."

_(But no, that's not right, because after that Mr. Wayne had been called away. And there were more words, weren't there, more words exchanged between ‘Brucie’ Wayne and one Rebekah Adams?)_

"I admire you, as well, Mr. Wayne, it's such a good thing you have done. You must have a very big heart for those who have lost their parents," she remarked. 

And Brucie had smiled, but there was a hint of a wolf around the edges of the expression. "Oh, it's hard not to have a soft spot for orphans, when you are one yourself."

"Of course, I didn't intend - I wouldn't, I mean, I-" the woman stammered, no doubt worried she’d placed her foot in it.

"It's alright, Ms. Adams. Why, I can see how much you care for our young Tim. You are far and above a better case worker than mine was, I'll say."

_(He remembers the ashen shade of Ms. Adams' once-caramel skin when she paled, either with embarrassment at her misstep, or at the compliment that was also a thinly-veiled indictment of her whole department. He remembers how she tried, in vain, to regain some control over the situation.)_

"Are you a friend of the family? How long have you known the Drakes?" she asked. 

If Bruce Wayne was startled at her impertinence, he hid it with a chuckle and a joke. "Oh, it's a small neighborhood, isn't it Tim? At least, for a certain definition of small!" 

"Why, sometimes it feels like just yesterday the Drakes moved into the old Pershing estate, not years. How long has it been, son?"

_(And Tim, despite being flustered - he hardly remembered having his name spoken that many times by Bruce Wayne in his life, much less in a single conversation - must have found his voice. He knows this, because if he had not, he would surely have some recollection of his own severe embarrassment, when they stared at him like a mental patient. And he has no such memory, so he must have answered.)_

And so it went.

It was, perhaps, the single greatest instance of two people talking past one another that Tim had ever witnessed.

In the end, Ms. Adams had turned to Tim, not with the glimmer of anger from having been lied to - or misled - but with the faint sheen of nervousness from having come face-to-face with a celebrity and emerged with dignity (at least partially) intact. Tim swallowed, panic rising up again as he realized it fell to him to correct her misconception, after all.

"Well, there is still paperwork to be done," she told him sternly, finding refuge in her sense of authority before she wavered. "Of course, I'm sure Mr. Wayne has people to take care of such things." Tim's protest emerged more like a whimper than he intended, and was perhaps mistaken for assent as she continued.

"At least you won't have to change schools, after all.” If she’d been a few years older, nearer his parents’ age than his own, he suspected she might have been wringing her hands. If she'd worn pearls, she might have been clutching them. Instead, she simply resettled her silver bracelet with a nervous twist.

“I'd hate to have to uproot your life even more, when you're already dealing with such tragedy," she said. And Tim could hardly tell if she was talking to him anymore, or to herself, perhaps attempting to justify a hasty retreat.

He opened his mouth, again, to correct her - say something like 'sorry, but uh, Bruce Wayne isn't really my Godfather? It’s fine, though, because I can stay with my Uncle… uh… Bert? Yeah, he's my, uh, Great Aunt's first ex-husband. Sorry for the confusion?' - only, hopefully, a _tad_ more convincing. But despite half a dozen tries, Tim found the words just wouldn't come. 

Past the point of requiring any input from Tim, the social worker babbled a stream of information, repeated her condolences, pressed a card into his hand… and left, all before he managed to correct her. He watched her go, feeling a strange mix of dread and relief. He needed to talk to Mr. White, he decided. The only question was whether it could be put off until tomorrow… or, if he needed to somehow pull the man aside today. 

He frowned at the thought of fighting his way back to the lawyer’s side in the parlor, of being trapped there to listen to another round of meaningless statements about his parents from perfect strangers.

 _Tomorrow,_ he thought. _definitely tomorrow._

Tim finally remembered his coffee, the one he never had the chance to drink, and wondered briefly where it had gone. It certainly wasn’t in his hands now - he half-remembered Ms. Adams’ look of disapproval, and made a face. 

He was debating going to get another, when he spotted Ives’ hunched form. His friend looked vaguely lost as he tried to navigate the press in the hall. Tall for their age, even before the latest growth spurt added three inches, Ives still moved as if he wasn’t quite sure where his joints were at any given moment. His red-blond hair was starting to get longer than he prefered, and the sleeves of his suit jacket stopped just above his wrists.

Ives spotted him then with a look of relief, and ducked around a woman whose performative sobs fell short of an Oscar. The two teens managed to meet up by the base of the stairs, despite the milling crowd of designer-suited and pearl-laden mourners. The bubble that seemed to form around Tim wherever he went today - as if his misfortune was a disease those around him were afraid to catch - was suddenly a blessing, because it gave them a bit of breathing room.

“Thanks for coming,” Tim told his best friend. 

“Of course. There are… a _lot_ of people here,” Ives commented. He adjusted his glasses as his eyes darted around.

“Yeah,” Tim nodded. “Some of them might even have known my parents.”

The other teen blinked at him. “Feels weird to be wearing shoes in your house,” he said after a moment. 

Tim looked down, taking in Ives’ worn black dress shoes - his trousers stopped a good inch above the laces - and his own black chucks. 

“Yeah, tell me about it.” He glanced around. Tim was extremely glad his friend had come, but he hated that it meant _both_ of them would get to spend the next hour or so in misery. “You wanna go upstairs?” he offered abruptly.

Ives startled. “We can do that? Don’t you have to -” he waved his hand to indicate the general zoo. 

Tim shrugged. “It’s my house.”

The taller boy squinted down at him through his thick, coke-bottle lenses for a second. Then - “Alright,” he agreed. 

They ditched their shoes at the top of the stairs, heading straight for Tim’s room. The mingled sound of quiet voices was instantly muffled when he shut the door behind them, and Tim relaxed.

He threw himself down on the beanbag in the corner, leaving Ives to stretch his lanky form on the bed. 

“Really, feet on my pillow, dude?” he asked.

Ives lifted one socked foot in the air and wiggled it, “I’ll have you know, these feet are tide-fresh.”

Tim huffed, but smiled. Ives rolled over to face him.

“Callie said to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t make it. The twins have the flu, and now it looks like her mom’s sick, too.”

“Ugh. _Please_ tell me she prepped a Hazmat suit.”

“Seriously. I’m already down one lab partner, I can’t lose the other one, too.” Ives’ grin turned into a frown. “Not that I’m blaming you or anything.” Tim just flapped his hand as he sank further into the beanbag, a sort of ‘no worries’ gesture. 

“How long is your reprieve, anyway?” his friend asked, curious. Tim shrugged. “They didn’t say?”

He shook his head.

“Huh.”

Tim realized it had been almost a week since he last saw his best friend. They had Chem together Tuesday morning, before… before. And in the meantime, so much had changed. He wasn’t sure, at first, what to say. If he should explain about the emancipation, or just act like everything was normal. He almost didn’t say anything, but… well, it’s _Ives._

“I’m testing for my GED next week,” he said.

“Wait. Really?” 

Tim, who had been staring up at the ceiling, closed his eyes. “Yeah. If I get the results back before the emancipation hearing, it’s a point in my favor.” 

“That’s…” There’s a pause. Then, “But… there’s not really a point in coming back to school after that, is there?”

Tim shrugged. “There’s the AP classes. Could be useful for college credit,” he offered. “Plus, I bet most universities prefer an actual diploma and high school transcripts.”

“So… you’re coming back?” Ives sounded hesitantly hopeful. 

Tim took a long time to find an answer. Probably too long, from the sound of his friend’s sigh. 

“I… don’t know,” he finally admitted. 

Tim really meant to talk to Mr. White. Honestly, he was going to.

But, when he dug up the spare to his mother’s Lexus the Monday after his parents funeral, and drove himself into the firm’s offices, he found the man was in court for the day. He managed to get an update on the investigation, at least, from one of the junior partners; Brocklehurst groused at him for ‘monopolizing’ their time, and he barely escaped Groen’s office after the woman broke into sobs on sight, crying ‘you poor child’ and attempting to squeeze the stuffing from him.

The next few times he saw Mr. White, he almost brought it up, but then he would get distracted, or chicken out. So he kept putting it off; there were GED test dates to research, his regular Judo lessons to attend in the quest for a bit of normalcy. It was like, as long as he kept moving, kept busy, everything would be fine. 

So it was the weekend again before the other shoe finally - finally! - dropped. 

And it was Ives, of all people, who sounded the alarm.

“Holy crap Tim, how come you never told me??” was the first thing out of his mouth, when he called the Drake house that morning. 

Tim was awake, but just barely. He was sure if only the coffee would finish brewing, he might even be able to tell what his friend was talking about.

“Tell you what?” he asked, befuddled. 

“That Bruce Wayne was your godfather! Is that why-” the other teen chattered on until Tim managed to interrupt him.

“What makes you say that?”

“Um, because my dad read it in the _Gotham Gazette?_ Seriously, I have to find out from Vicki Vale? Come on, I thought we were friends!”

Tim could feel the caffeine withdrawal headache coming on, but the way his stomach dropped at Ives’ words left him too nauseous for coffee.

“Ives, I gotta go. I’m sorry, I’ll call you later.” He didn’t wait for his friend to answer to hang up; hardly polite, but Tim had slightly larger problems. 

He hopped into his mother’s car and whipped it out of the driveway. It was two miles up the road to Wayne Manor; as always, ‘neighbor’ was a loose term in Bristol. He drove the whole way in a daze, not helped by the fact that he’d left the coffee behind in the kitchen. 

Of course, unlike the Drake’s estate, the Wayne Manor grounds were circled by a sturdy fence. It was Saturday morning, and the gate was closed. Tim was momentarily stymied, before he spotted the intercom.

The voice that answered might have been too electronic to identify, if it weren’t for the distinctly British sound of the vowels. 

“It’s Tim - Timothy Drake? I’m - sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak with Mr. Wayne. Please?”

Perhaps Alfred was just in a charitable mood, or perhaps the slight panic in Tim’s voice caused him to take pity on the teen, because the gate began to open. The third possibility - that he’d already perused the _Gotham Gazette_ \- Tim ruled out immediately when the kindly man greeted him at the door. 

“Mr. Drake, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Well, uh. I kinda need to talk to Mr. Wayne about something. Uh, something urgent-” he started to say. Started, only, because then came a voice from behind the butler. 

“Alfred?” the voice called, drawing closer, “Alfred, I need to borrow your eyes. Then, once you tell me I’m not crazy, I need-” The other voice cut off as well, and no wonder; Bruce Wayne had stepped around the corner and spotted them. There was a copy of the _Gazette_ clutched in one hand, and a somewhat constipated expression on his face. A face that blanked, aside from a slight drawing together of his brows, when he spotted who was at the door. 

“I can explain?” Tim offered, weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? As always, comments give me life  
> 💚theginge


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A misunderstanding with a social worker and a bit of procrastination have put Timothy Drake in an awkward situation. Bruce Wayne - the man who is _not_ his godfather, whatever the Gotham Gazette may claim - just wants an explanation.

“I can explain?” Tim offered.

Bruce Wayne narrowed his eyes. “Then perhaps you should.” 

At least, he was not yelling.

Tim gulped. He opened his mouth - and once more, his words failed him. His stomach chose that moment to gurgle, more from the anxious churning in his gut than any sense of hunger. Alfred cleared his throat, breaking the stare-off. 

“Have you eaten anything, young sir? Master Wayne was just about to sit down for breakfast. He would be delighted to have you join him, I’m certain.” The look he gave Bruce brooked no argument, and Tim shifted uncomfortably. 

“If you would show our guest to the breakfast nook?” he instructed the billionaire. 

Which is how Tim found himself seated across from Bruce Wayne in a small dining room; four chairs surrounded the round table which could have easily sat six. 

Bruce’s face was doing this interesting dance, as if he was reaching for the guileless charm of ‘Brucie’ and could not quite mesh it with the impatience and need for answers. 

Though he had offered to explain, Tim’s tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. The only word he managed to get out in a solid five minute period was a tentative, “Um...”

Wayne broke first. 

“So Timothy, have you read this morning's paper?”

Tim took a breath; the direct question he could work with. 

“Not exactly.”

“But you know what it says?” His eyebrow was raised.

“Not… exactly.”

“Then here. Take a look.”

Tim dropped his eyes to glance at the paper Bruce slid in front of him. One of the headlines in a side column caught his eye. ' **BRUCE WAYNE: SETTLING DOWN?** ' it read. 

“You know, I thought I was accustomed to my name showing up in the paper tied to all kinds of speculation. I was interested to see who I rumor had me engaged to these days.”

“Imagine my surprise then, to find out I had a teenage god-son.” 

Tim couldn’t meet his gaze. 

“I thought, how odd. Ms. Vale usually at least has a source for the things she prints - and who do you suppose could have led her to believe something like that? It would have to be someone she trusted to know what they were talking about,” he said, still sounding casually curious.

“And then I recalled the strangest conversation. With a… Rochelle? Mrs. Adams, was it? A caseworker for Social Services, if I remember correctly. In hindsight, it almost makes sense. Only, I’m stuck on one thing.”

“As far as I know, your parents never approached me about godparent-hood. So, the only idea I can come up with is this:”

Tim risked a glance up. Bruce’s posture was still open and relaxed, but something about the way he was holding his jaw belied his annoyance. Still, his voice sounded more bewildered than angry when he asked:

“Did you tell your caseworker I was your godfather?” 

“No! I didn’t. I mean, not on purpose,” Tim stammered.

“Not on-” Bruce rolled his eyes heavenward. “Son. What, exactly, is going on?” 

Like the dam had broken, it all came spilling out. “I wasn’t - She ambushed me, and I panicked.” 

“So you lied?”

“I mean, never said ‘Bruce Wayne is my godfather’? I may have said your name, at one point, but only because I saw you standing there! Except, it was maybe, um... kinda, right after she asked if- if I had a guardian? I didn’t mean - that is, she assumed...”

“And you just let her believe it?”

“I was going to correct her. But, I mean, you two had this _whole conversation._ I’m honestly not even sure how she still came out of it with the wrong impression. I was trying to figure out how to fix it, okay, and maybe I was trying to do it without straight-up admitting that there wasn’t anyone, you know, _legally,_ ‘cause I didn’t want her to try and haul me away to foster care right then and there. But then she said something about you handling the paperwork, and gave me her card, and she left!

“I was going to fix it, I swear. I just needed to talk to Mr. White, that’s my family’s lawyer, about arranging a temporary legal guardian, or something, until the emancipation comes through. I wasn’t planning on this,” his voice went a little squeaky as he gestured to the paper. 

Bruce was making that face by the time he finished, that one he recognized from his mother when she was resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose to stave off the oncoming headache. Tim lowered his eyes; his back was ramrod straight, but he’d had to fold his hands into his lap to stop them from shaking. 

And perhaps the butler had been waiting just out of sight for a break in the conversation - that, or he was some form of psychic - because he chose that moment to appear with a tray. Tim barely managed a strained, “Thank you,” when the older man set a place-setting in front of him. 

“You’re quite welcome. Would you like some tea?” he asked.

Tim flicked his eyes longingly at Bruce’s mug. “Don’t suppose there’s any more coffee?” he asked.

Alfred looked surprised. “Aren’t you a little young for that particular beverage?”

Tim shrugged. “My dad always says - said,” he corrected himself. “The Drakes have been slaves to the coffee gods from the first whiff.” 

“I shall grap another cup, then,” he replied. 

“Well,” Bruce finally broke the silence after the butler left. 

Tim whipped his head up; the false cheer in his voice was startling. It was almost a relief that he could still see the tension in the man’s shoulders, as a contrast to the almost chipper tone. 

“An honest mistake, I suppose.”

Tim relaxed; at least, until the next words out of the man’s mouth.

“I’ll just have to call up the Gazette. They should be able to get a retraction printed by the evening addition.”

Tim winced. “Do you have to?” escaped before he could clamp his mouth shut on the words.

Bruce gave him a _look_. Somehow, it only spurred Tim on.

“It’s just, I haven’t actually got the chance to talk to Mr. White yet? About a temporary guardian, or whatever I need. And if Ms. Adams saw that… plus, I mean, isn’t it good publicity for you? Ives says there has hardly been any Bruce Wayne gossip in the paper in almost a year, wouldn’t it be awkward to have the one bit of arguably-good press immediately negated?”

The billionaire’s face, skeptical at first, leaned more toward incredulous the longer he spoke.

“And it’s not like you’re my actual Godfather, so you wouldn’t have to do anything! Not like you would suddenly have a kid, to - to - get in the way of your nightlife, or whatever-”

There was absolutely no intonation at all when Bruce interrupted him to clarify: “My- nightlife?” 

Tim’s throat went dry, mental alarm bells shrieking. Words tumbled out in a jumbled rush; “Or, I mean, I guess if there haven’t been any gossip articles maybe that means you’re not into that scene anymore, the parties or, or - I don’t know. I just meant you wouldn’t have to like, put up with me, or anything, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just, I was trying to avoid Ms. Adams coming back before I can get everything straightened out and taking me to foster care, or a state home, or whatever.”

Something softened in the other man, and Tim recalls his words from that day in a flash. 

_(“I’m sure you’re a much better caseworker than mine was, ah-ha-ha!” Brucie said._ And, sure, he may feel guilty about it later, but never let it be said that the son of Jack and Janet Drake doesn’t know how to press an advantage when he sees one.)

“I just, I don’t want to lose my home. It’s all I have left… of my parents.”

Bruce pressed his eyes shut briefly. He sighed then, but the sound didn’t bring Tim any comfort. 

“You realize. I can’t just _delay_ in correcting something like this. Not only would it be irresponsible, but you have no idea the number of calls I’m going to be fending off in the next twenty-four hours. Not just the press, but my board, my company, the lawyers; h- heck, probably D.I.’s lawyers, too. Possibly even social services,” he tagged the last on with a hint of disgust Tim was almost certain wasn’t meant for him.

His shoulders fell; Bruce was right, he definitely hadn’t thought all that through. 

“Of - of course, I wasn’t thinking. I - I’ll talk to Mr. White, hopefully we can figure something out today. Maybe Ms. Adams won’t see the evening edition, it could buy us a little more time...” 

His mind was already swirling, trying to come up with a tactic for how to broach the subject; he needed to do better, be more convincing than the unprepared word-vomit he just spewed in Mr. Wayne’s direction. He started to push back from the table; he would need to move fast, though it was his own fault for putting it off, and not dealing with the situation until the last possible moment. There was no time to sit at the very nice table and have an awkward breakfast with his neighbor, especially not with Tim still more nauseous than hungry. 

“Hang on. Sit,” Bruce said, and he sat. He threw a confused glance at the man; what else could he want?

“We’ve established where you went wrong,” he offered, and Tim flinched, “Now tell me the plan.”

“Um.”

When Tim hesitated, Bruce prompted: “What’s this about emancipation?”

Patiently, he coaxed the details out of Tim. When Alfred brought out the coffee, and he took that first deep breath of aromatic steam, he relaxed the smallest amount. It helped to talk it out, to remind himself that, when not on the edge of a panic attack, Tim _did,_ in fact, know how to approach an issue logically and find a solution. There was still a knot of anxiety simmering in his gut, but he no longer felt like things were entirely out of his control. 

To his bafflement, Bruce didn't limit his questions to the legal side of things. For some reason, he seemed oddly invested in what Tim had for dinner for the last week.

(Really, the only thing that had really changed was that now, when Tim popped one of the casseroles Mrs. Mac left in the oven, the leftovers lasted for a week. Tim tried not to dwell on the reason: the fact that there was only one mouth to feed, instead of three.)

Something complicated flashed across Bruce’s face when he answered, before the man hid it again behind an innocuous smile. 

"Who is Mrs. Mac?" he asked. 

Tim explained that she’d been the housekeeper for years, handled the grocery shopping and frequently cooked or meal-prepped when his parents were busy. 

Bruce opened his mouth again with an apologetic look, but Tim quickly realized where he was going. He shook his head.

"She's technically a D.I. employee. I checked with Mr. White - there's no reason for her paychecks to stop coming," he explained. "And the grocery check card pulls from an expense account that has her name as well as my mother's. I set up new auto-deposits with the bank already."

The look that garnered was almost... confounded. Tim ducked his head and took a gulp of coffee; he was at a loss to figure out just what Bruce wanted out of him with his casual interrogation.

“I can see why you think you are not in need of a guardian,” he eventually said. 

“You can?” Tim asked, startled. Then he frowned, quickly realizing Bruce hadn’t actually said whether he _agreed_. 

But the man didn’t seem to notice, appearing lost in thought. 

His next question was not at all what Tim expected. 

“This Mr. White. You have a phone number for him, I presume?”

“Ye-es,” Tim replied, confused. But Bruce didn’t explain, just looked at him expectantly. So Tim pulled out his phone to look up the contact information. Wary, he handed it over.

“Mr. White? This is Bruce Wayne…”

Later, Tim sat on a small sofa - the kind he suspected might actually be called a _settee_ \- in the parlour, almost in a state of shock. The fact that Gerald White had agreed to make the trip out to Bristol, on a Saturday, and on such short notice, might have been surprising, were it anyone other than Bruce Wayne who asked him for the meeting. No, the source of Tim’s shock was another realization entirely: 

Brucie Wayne was an _amazing_ liar.

Tim could no longer glimpse the real person behind the façade. The Brucie sitting across from Mr. White was flawlessly vapid, even nauseatingly so. If he never understood before why people fell for the act, he could now.

The whole thing was so unsettling Tim almost choked when Bruce finally got to the point. His heart definitely skipped a few beats, as the teen wondered if he misheard.

"... I promised Jack," the stranger with Bruce Wayne’s face was saying, "Though of course, it never occurred to me that such a thing would happen..."

"I must say, Mr. Drake never mentioned anything to me about your being young Timothy's godfather," the lawyer admitted. 

"Oh, it was nothing so official as that. Just two men having a conversation. A few glasses in, it turned distinctly maudlin, I’ll admit. But, let it not be said that a Wayne doesn't keep his word!"

"Of course not," White replied, entirely convinced. If Tim didn't know better, he might have believed Bruce himself. Then he cleared his throat. “You are… aware that Timothy will be seeking legal emancipation?” 

“Ah yes, young Tim has explained it to me. In the meantime, however, I think we both know how social services can be…” he gave an expressive shrug, and the other man nodded hastily.

"I’ve heard the Drakes had the utmost trust in you and your firm. Can I count on you to take care of the legalities? I’ll give you my information, of course, so you can send over whatever paperwork may be required."

“Of course,” White said, quickly recovering his footing at the prospect of getting down to business. 

Tim, on the other hand, was left reeling. He still had not recovered, in fact, by the time Alfred came to show the lawyer out. 

Eventually, he shook off his stupor. "You didn't have to do that," he protested.

For a long moment, the billionaire just considered him. Tim tried not to hold his breath waiting for the reply.

Bruce didn't know if the impulse that came over him that morning was the result of his own history, or something about the boy; Tim Drake looked younger than his sixteen years, at least until he opened his mouth or turned that too-observant gaze your way. Then it was like a wizened old man peered out through the teen’s eyes, one with the barest hint of naïvety, of idealism, left despite his world-weary tone.

After he called to arrange the meeting with White ("Please, call me Gerry"), Alfred pulled him aside with a tilt of his head. He stepped out of the room for a moment, leaving Tim with his barely-touched breakfast.

"I know that look, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "Whatever you are about to do, please tell me you have at least thought it through."

Bruce gave a wry smile. "Isn't that what I have you for?"

Alfred's unimpressed look was out in full force.

"Look- how much of that did you hear?" he asked. 

Alfred arched a brow. “You know I try not to eavesdrop on conversations to which I am not invited,” was his only answer.

 _So, some, but not all,_ Bruce translated. 

He explained in a few words Tim’s… predicament, and the gazette article. He mentioned the awkward position it placed him in - well, both of them, really. Alfred remained as inscrutable as ever, right up until Bruce mentioned what he planned to do about it. Even then, anyone who did not know the man as well and as long as Bruce had would have missed the slight tick of alarm, quickly suppressed. 

“Well. A noble idea, I suppose,” the man who had once been Bruce's own legal guardian finally said. “I won’t try and stop you, but I do hope you know what you are doing. It has been over a decade since _I_ last raised a teenager, and as I recall, it was no walk in the park.”

“I hardly think Tim needs much ‘raising’, Alfred,” Bruce protested. Then, at the Englishman’s look of doubt, he added in a quieter voice, “He’s not like me.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes. “If you say so, Master Bruce. But… just how well do you know young Master Drake?” 

And with that parting shot, he turned to go, leaving Bruce to return to the boy in question. 

As always, Alfred made a valid point. Timothy Drake was the neighbors’ kid, a child of business associates. Bruce had encountered him a few times over the years; it was always rare for there to be children at the kind of events that drew executives of both Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries. But, maybe once a year or so, Jack and Janet would bring their son along, the whole family immaculately turned out. Bruce had sympathized with Tim, figuring the boy must be bored out of his mind. But the corporate bigwigs and their socialite spouses were hardly going to give _Brucie Wayne_ a moment to talk to a mere child. 

So Bruce tried to rectify his ignorance at the breakfast table, asking after Tim’s likes and hobbies, watching him closely while appearing to not be watching at all. Tim looked bemused by the turn the conversation took, and more bewildered the longer it went on. Thinking he might feel put on the spot, Bruce attempted to seem more interested in his breakfast of toast and fruit than he actually was, hoping to put the kid more at ease. It wasn’t until the second time he caught the teen sneaking an assessing look out of the corner of his eye that something clicked.

Bruce hid a wince. He’d slipped easily back into the mannerisms of an airheaded socialite after the conversation with Alfred. In retrospect, the contrast to his earlier behavior had to be... less than subtle. 

When the young Drake heir had tuned up on their doorstep, Bruce had been... _unsettled_ by the novel situation he found himself in. Namely, that of not having a clue what was going on. It was not that he didn’t recognize the usual mask was slipping. But when keeping up the pretense would have slowed the process of getting answers, he had let it. 

It had always been a weakness of his, the way Bruce struggled to maintain the farce when confronted with a child. He postulated to Alfred, once, that it might be because his subconscious had trouble registering them as a threat. Alfred had given him that look, though, the one a younger Bruce once dubbed the ‘Are you _bloody_ kidding me?’ - so Bruce had let it drop.

Tim, it seemed, was too observant by half; he obviously noticed the change in behavior. Swinging one-eighty back the other way was more likely to convince the teen he was bipolar than reassure him, so all Bruce could do was tone down the act a tiny amount while they waited for the lawyer to arrive. 

When he set up the meeting, all Bruce had told the boy was that he would ‘take care of it’. From the startled reaction Tim gave in the study, he obviously had not guessed what that meant. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he stammered when the lawyer was gone, though his back was straight and his chin held high. 

Bruce considered and discarded several responses. 

"Sure I did." - not quite the truth. 

"But I wanted to." - even further from it. 

(In fact, he was not exactly sure why he'd done it. Only, it had felt...right. Or, no; maybe it just would have felt wrong _not_ to.)

“And yet,” Bruce said with a slight shrug, “I did.”

Tim blinked his clear blue eyes several times, then took a deep breath. It was like he’d been underwater too long and finally came up for air.

“Thank you,” he said after he released the breath. “Just- thanks.”

Tim’s mind was quiet in the wake of his relief for maybe thirty seconds before it started to gallop again, racing with contingencies to plan, to-do lists to prioritize. Before he could get too caught up in the cycle, he pulled himself back to the present. Bruce was smiling at him faintly, in a way that he guessed was supposed to be reassuring. 

“I guess I’ll just… go home now?”

“Hm. We should probably go collect some of your things, sooner rather than later,” Bruce answered with a nod.

Tim’s shoulders tightened, as it suddenly occurred to him they might not be on the same page about this whole guardianship thing. 

“What? Why?” 

“Tim,” Bruce’s voice softened, as if trying to reassure a spooked animal. Tim stiffened at the implication. “I realize you don’t want to lose your home, on top of the parents you have already lost. And I’m not trying to take that from you, I promise. But, once Gerry - Mr. White - has filed the paperwork, you realize you will officially be your legal guardian?” 

“Temporary legal guardian,” Tim couldn’t help interjecting.

Bruce inclined his head as if to acknowledge the correction. “At least until the emancipation goes through,” he allowed. “But I can pretty much guarantee that, regardless of the Wayne fortune, or family name, Social Services _is_ still going to pay a visit.”

“Oh.” As understanding dawned, Tim’s shoulders slumped. _Why did he keep forgetting to account for that?_

“They are going to expect to see evidence of a sixteen-year-old boy living in this house, you understand. Which is why, we need to move at least some of your things into your new room.” 

Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. “My… new room?”

“Yes. Goodness knows there are plenty of extra bedrooms in this house. Alfred will help you pick one.”

“Oh,” Tim repeated. 

But this time, there was more hope than resignation in the word.

Tim spent that first Saturday transferring half of his clothes from his closet at home to one of the guest rooms in the Manor. Despite what Bruce said, he had trouble thinking of it as _his_ room. Alfred had shown him to a whole hallway of rooms that he claimed were empty, and let him pick. After asking where Bruce’s was, and learning it was the master suite at the near end, he chose a door solidly in the middle - far enough away to be out of the man’s hair, but not so far away as to be insulting. When he looked to the butler for approval, the man simply nodded, and opened the room so he could take a quick look inside. Most of the furniture was hidden by covers, and the mattress on the queen-size bed was bare. The drapes on the window were a deep red, however, and the headboard was a dark mahogany. 

“I’ll have it ready in a trice,” Alfred assured him. Then, he proceeded to load Tim up with more flattened boxes than he could possibly need to transfer a few things. Like Bruce, Alfred offered to help, but when Tim declined, he didn’t push. 

At Alfred’s insistence, he stayed for dinner after he finished the unpacking. He was surprised and relieved when the older man joined them at the table; he had imagined an awkward one-on-one affair where he and Bruce Wayne struggled to find something to say to one another, or else a continuation of Brucie’s cheerful interrogation from that morning. 

By the time he had packed up a few boxes, loaded them into his mother’s car, driven back to the manor, unpacked, helped Alfred get sheets on the bed, stayed for dinner, dessert, and even coffee, it was well into evening. Reluctantly, he let himself be convinced to stay and try out the new bedroom as well; the long day had been exhausting, more mentally than in the physical sense, and he was too tired to argue.

He couldn’t help but cling to Bruce’s promise even as he got ready for bed, reassuring himself that it was just for the night, and tried to relax. The manor was as quiet around him as his room at home would be, and turning out the lights hid the most obvious reminders that he was in an unfamiliar place. Somehow, though, despite the sheer size of the house that let each of its residents have their own bubble of privacy, the Manor felt... alive. 

Sleep came much easier than Tim expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, here we go!   
> In other news, Accidental Family Acquisition is most definitely my new favorite tag 😅


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has accidentally acquired a godfather.
> 
> Now what?

Tim woke with the tight feeling of anxiety in his chest, fluttering on the edge of panic at the sense that something was off.

 _Oh, right. Wayne Manor,_ he remembered.

Placing his surroundings and recalling the previous day didn't calm him, exactly, but it allowed him to take a much needed deep breath. Mentally, he went over his plan for the week - then remembered half of what was on it no longer applied, and threw the whole thing out to start fresh. High on the priority list would be calling Ives back, since he realized with a pang of guilt he hadn't the day before.

But first: caffeine. 

When he had gathered the will to get moving, he dressed and went in search of coffee - the nectar of the gods. 

He found Alfred in the kitchen, though there was no sign of Bruce. The Englishman was making tea for himself, but when Tim shot a longing look at the coffee maker, he sighed and produced a bag of medium roast. 

“What are your plans for the day, Master Timothy,” he asked as he prepped the filter.

“Tim,” Tim corrected. “I- I prefer Tim, actually,” 

The butler hardly missed a beat. “Of course, Master Tim.”

Tim frowned; that wasn’t quite what… well.

“Um. I thought I’d go see my friend Iv- Sebastian Ives? He called yesterday but… well, I was in kind of a hurry to get over here,” he said, feeling sheepish. He ducked his head, missing the considering glance the older man aimed his way.

“Well. I would offer a ride, but I imagine you would prefer to drive yourself?” His tone was neutral, void of disapproval or censure. Tim nodded gratefully; he already felt uncomfortably like an intruder, the Manor's quiet morning atmosphere never intended for public consumption.

“Very well. Master Bruce mentioned that you carry a mobile phone - will you leave the number, case we need to get in contact with you?" Though phrased as a question, it was obvious there was only one appropriate response.

Tim gave the number, then let himself be talked into having some toast with his coffee, though he mostly choked it down for courtesy's sake. As soon as his coffee cup was drained, he thanked Alfred and quietly slipped out. 

When Bruce woke up the morning after unexpectedly acquiring a godson, it was to the news that "young Master Drake" left shortly after waking. He felt a mix of regret and relief at the reprieve, followed by an immediate stab of shame. Probably, a good person - or any responsible adult - shouldn’t feel anything like relief at the fact their ward, however surprising the occurrence, had made himself scarce after breakfast. 

Then again, no one had ever accused Brucie Wayne of excessive responsibility. 

He sipped the strong black tea Alfred handed him as he examined the butler’s face, not yet decided on how to proceed. More than just a stiff upper lip, the older man was as steady as a tree trunk, a strong pine that could weather everything from blizzards to lightning strikes. But Bruce knew that face better than he knew his own. He could pick out the slight tightness around the eyes, the furrow between his brows that was a millimeter too deep, and mark it for the concern that it was. 

He wondered how many of the same worries they had nursed the night before, as Bruce had struggled to keep his mind on the task at hand. He was lucky it was - by Gotham’s standards - a slow night. As hard as he tried, he’d been unable to prevent his mind from circling back to the matter of Tim Drake. 

(It’s not often these days Bruce has cause to doubt himself. Usually he thinks in so many contingencies, planning too many steps ahead to ever let a cliche like _‘What was I thinking?’_ cross his mind. 

He had thought it more than once, that night.)

But that was then. 

Alfred raises an eyebrow, and Bruce can hear the question as clearly as if he had spoken aloud:

_“How shall we proceed, then?”_

Bruce hid a grimace. _I really wish I knew._

“Maryanne Ives, speaking,” a voice answered when Tim dialed the family’s landline for the second time. He had forgotten about Sunday mass initially, and been waiting (not so) patiently since. 

“Is Sebastian there? It’s Tim, Tim Drake.”

“One moment.” There was a beat of quiet; she must have covered the receiver before calling for her son. 

“Tim, _finally._ I was wondering when you were gonna call,” his friend said. 

“Yeah. Sorry about… yesterday. You busy? I thought- I’d come hang out? If that’s cool.”

“Oh, yeah, totally! Callie and I were gonna play video games later, but you should be good to come over whenever. Already finished my chores.”

Tim felt his shoulders lift out of the hunch they had unconsciously fallen into. “I’ll… see you in a bit, then.” 

“Yeah, man. Awesome!”

The loose smile Ives’ cheerful excitement had left him with lasted through the house and into the garage. Somewhere between getting back into the car and passing the turnoff to Wayne Manor, it slid into more of a pained grimace, and he drove most of the way on autopilot. 

To Tim’s amazement, the first thing out of Ives’ mouth when he arrived _wasn’t_ a demand for explanation. It wasn’t until after they had picked out a game, had the board all set up, with Ives wordlessly taking the Axis side of the Battle of Arracourt, that he said:

“So. You know I wasn’t _mad_ at you for not telling me that Bruce Wayne was your godfather, right?," he offered, tentatively. "Just- surprised.”

Tim paused, taking a breath. “Yeah, well. Same. It was news to me, too.” 

“Whoah,” Ives said, eyes wide behind his thick lenses. 

Tim gave his friend the short version, glossing over the fact that Bruce had only agreed to become his (temporary) legal guardian _after_ the article ran in the Gazette. Ives made sympathetic noises in the appropriate places, and then - because he was a genius _and_ a good friend - let the topic drop. Tim smiled gratefully, relaxing as he let the redhead’s enthusiastic speculation - about the new Warlocks and Warriors campaign the local comic shop was planning - wash over him. 

They stuffed themselves with chips and junk-food, playing board games to pass the time. When Callie arrived, they commandeered the living room TV to set up Ives’ game system. Since he’d more or less invited himself along, Tim watched the other two play, content to sit back and heckle when either of the on-screen characters made a mistake. At one point Callie growled at him, and Tim fell out of his chair dodging the barrage of M&Ms that followed, while Ives laughed at them without taking his focus off the screen.

Eventually, Tim offered to pay for pizza, which sent Ives scrambling to ask his parents' permission. Callie paused the game and turned to look at Tim, and for a moment he thought she was about to ask if he was okay. He braced himself. Instead, she just tilted her head and gave a small smile.

“I’m not saying this is the _only_ reason why we keep you around, but it’s definitely up there,” she teased. 

Surprised, Tim laughed. Then he gave her a considering look, and was unable to resist a bit of fishing.

“Sorry I crashed your date. If that’s what this was,” he apologized.

She flapped a hand as if to brush off the apology, but couldn't quite meet his eyes. He thought there might be a hint of blush staining her cheeks. “Eh, you’re fine,” she said, before Ives rushed back into the room. 

“We are a go for pizza,” he announced dramatically, channeling his inner NASA mission-controller. “What are we getting?” 

They switched places while Callie ordered the pies, out-voted by the other two as the one ‘least likely to stutter something stupid’ when confronted with a telephone. She rolled her eyes, but went along. Tim had just passed the controller back when his phone rang. Startled, he stepped away to answer it. 

“Hello?”

“Tim,” Bruce Wayne greeted, and Tim’s stomach did a flip-flop as he wondered what the man could want. But all he said was, “Alfred would like to know if he should set a third plate for dinner.”

“Oh. Uh, we just ordered pizza. I was gonna just eat here, and then head home?” For some reason, the last seemed to come out more like a question than he intended. 

“Very well,” the reply came after an anxiety-inducing pause. “Tomorrow, then?” Tim, intuitive as he was, recognized the words as one of those questions which was very much _not._

“Um. Sure. What time?”

“Why don’t you just come over after school? There are some things we should discuss,” he said. 

“Alright,” Tim managed. 

The reminder of school sat uneasy in his gut as Tim returned to the sofa. 

The conversation with Bruce reminded Tim that he still hadn’t figured out what to do about his enrollment. If their loaded glances were any indication, his sudden quiet had tipped Callie and Ives off that something was up - but they didn’t pry. Mentally, Tim began constructing a pro-con list. 

The week before, he had managed to sign up at the last minute and take two of the four GED subject tests; the others were scheduled for Wednesday. He already knew he passed - even if math and science _weren’t_ his stronger subjects (spoiler alert: they were), the bar was plenty low - but official results would come later. As he had told Ives, there was an argument that could be made for going back to school - not the least of which was getting to see his friends. But, well...

He was sure to be the subject of too many pitying glances to count, now that he was ‘that poor orphan Drake kid’. Another thought struck him, and he grimaced. Vicki Vale’s Gotham Gazette article was proof the whole city still went crazy over any news of the Waynes; there was every chance, once word got out, that showing up at school would be like inviting a live audience to the soap opera that had become his life. 

Depressed by the thought, Tim pretended he didn’t see the loaded glances and bowed out early after pizza. 

The house, when he returned to it, was silent. It was a different sort of silence, however, than Wayne Manor had held - different even than the same house would have been, the month before. Then, even when he was alone - his mother working late downtown while his father was away on a business trip, or vice versa - there was something almost hopeful in the quiet. The looming promise of their return, perhaps. 

But now that was gone. 

When he tried to sleep, the bedroom at the top of the stairs - the one he’d picked out when he was ten, the room that was twice the size of his old one in the condo, the one that had taken _years_ to stop feeling eerily cavernous when he turned off the lights - suddenly seemed to press in on him from all sides. 

It was a mostly sleepless night.

The next morning he was jarred into motion by his weekday alarm, dressing entirely out of habit, before finally waking up when the coffee hit his system. He needed to leave soon if he was going to make it on time, but there was no one to cajole him out the door - and the thought of dealing with his peers at school, much less his teachers, made him grimace.

Draining the mug, Tim abruptly decided; he could deal with the rest of the world at a later date.

Upstairs, he found himself passing by his own door, tugged toward the end of the hall by an urge he didn't completely understand. Tentatively, he stopped outside the last door on the left and leaned in to push it open. 

The bed was perfectly made. All the drawers of his mother’s vanity, his father’s wardrobe, were pushed in flush. The throw on the slipper chair was artfully draped, the closet doors closed and latched. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting - not a flag in the sand, obviously, but _some_ sign that they had been there. That their presence then - like their absence now - had left a mark. 

There was nothing. The suite was clean and neat, like something out of a catalogue. 

Tim couldn't explain what inspired him to throw himself down onto that immaculately made bed.

(If he were feeling particularly dramatic, he might say it was out of some instinctual desire to mar that look of untouched perfection.)

But he did, and, burying his head in the pillow, caught a faint whiff of his mother’s perfume.

(Ever since he could remember, his parents had a plan for him. Mostly, it boiled down to: make good grades, get into a good school, work his way up through the company, and - eventually - take over for them. The key word, there, being ‘eventually’; everything about the plan assumed Jack and Janet would be around to see it. 

But his parents were gone. Soon, Tim would be an emancipated minor, legally an adult. Even if he didn’t have access to his full inheritance yet, he had enough. As every kid dreamed at _some_ point in their life, he would be able to do whatever he wanted.

And he had _no idea_ where to start.)

Suddenly he was struck by a memory; his mother’s voice, though he couldn’t remember the context: _Someday when you’re old enough to appreciate it, we’ll take you to see the Rijksmuseum, Tim.”_ They had always been saying things like that; _“We’ll take you with us to Tokyo someday, son, but for now it’s more important you not miss school,”_ or, _“Keep practicing your French and you will fit right in on the Riviera, someday.”_ He had always looked forward to that abstract ‘someday’, to getting to spend time with his parents as they showed him the places they loved the most. 

But there would be no future family trips - not to France, to Amsterdam, or anywhere else. He would never get to see his mother roll her eyes at the lines around the Louvre, or share that perfect _cappuccino_ with his father at a bar in Rome. 

And suddenly, he was _angry_.

Angry that of all the days to be in the same place at the same time, they had to pick _that_ day. Angry that he’d ever dared to think himself _alone_ before, when he’d always, _always_ , had them to fall back on. Most of all, he hated that their absence had punted him right off the map of his own life and set him adrift. Tim had yet to cry for his parents; not when he got the news, not at the funeral, not in private. The tears were one part anger, one part sadness, and one part regret, as they leaked onto pristine white satin. 

Tim made his way over to Wayne Manor around the time his school was getting out - though, if Bruce had gone into the city, he doubted the man would be back yet. He was right in his guess, but Alfred showed him in and offered tea and cookies. Tim had skipped lunch by accident, he realized, as he followed the butler to the den. 

He pulled his laptop from his backpack, just to kill the time. He was deep enough in concentration that he missed Bruce's arrival until the man cleared his throat from somewhere to his left. Tim did _not_ jump - but it was a close one.

Of course, Wayne didn't miss the aborted motion. “Apologies, Tim. I didn’t mean to startle you."

“It’s fine.” Tim closed his laptop. “What did you want to talk about?” he asked, trying to ignore the nervous jitter in his chest. Bruce took a seat on the sofa across from him, possibly hoping to put Tim at ease. It helped… some. 

He paused, and Tim stilled.

“Bad news?” he asked with trepidation. 

Bruce shook his head, even as he shook off the hesitation. “No, nothing like that. As of this morning I am officially your - temporary - legal guardian.”

Something told Tim there was more, so he waited. 

“I know how you value your independence,” Wayne continued. “And I’m not interested in taking it from you. But, however it came to be, I have legal responsibilities as your guardian now.” He gave a rueful smile. “I can’t really afford to have someone ask me where you are and not be able to answer.”

Tim winced. “Sorry about yesterday…”

Bruce waived off the apology. “No, it’s alright. Mr. White is familiar with your situation, of course, and Alfred was able to enlighten me. It’s more… future encounters I am concerned about.”

“So, what? You want me to... tell you wherever I go?” Tim asked. The idea left a sour taste in his mouth - even his parents’ hadn’t kept that tight a leash on him in years. Thankfully, though, that didn’t seem to be what Bruce is getting at. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Tim’s new legal guardian assured him. “However, I thought it might be best if you come to dinner. Here, at the Manor.”

Briefly, Tim felt confused - wasn’t he already present? Then it dawned on him. “You mean like, every night?” he clarified. 

“Most of them, yes. That way we may keep each other apprised of any necessary developments,” he said. The way he spoke, as if striking a deal with a business partner rather than scolding a wayward child, made Tim feel simultaneously like he was being humored, and put him at ease. It was an odd feeling.

Bruce continued. “If you are going to miss one, or be late for whatever reason, you can let us know - either the night before, or by phone. Which reminds me -” he pulled something out of his wallet. “Here are the numbers you can reach me at.”

Tim blinked at the slip of paper, then glanced up. “You have _four_ phones?” 

Bruce’s mouth twitched, the precursor to a smile. “It’s the house number, then my office one, my cell phone, and that last is Alfred’s. I thought you should have them.” 

“Oh. ...Thanks,” Tim said. “And, um. Dinner sounds nice.”

Bruce gave a real smile at that - not the bright, toothy thing he faked as part of the Brucie persona, but something smaller, a soft expression that actually seemed to reach his eyes.

“Good, then. Glad that’s settled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this is only half of what was originally supposed to be chapter three... but there were parts I didn't like, and it's been sitting in my drafts for ages b/c of it, so I grabbed what I liked, yanked the rest, and I'll re-work the next bit before I post ch 4... (hopefully without tearing all my hair out in the meantime.)
> 
> Anyway, comments are always appreciated :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is... still getting used to this whole thing.  
> (So is Bruce. They're a bit of a mess.)

“Um. Dinner sounds... nice," Tim agreed.

And it was - nice, that is. Alfred was at least as good a cook as Mrs. Mac was. It was nice, afterward, when Tim didn’t have to handle packaging away the leftovers himself; nice not to eat the same meal four nights in a row while he worked his way through them. Nice, even, to have company for the meal - once they got past the initial awkwardness.

As much as Tim was reluctant to let go of his home, of the opportunity to draw comfort from the familiar walls where he had spent six years of his life, it was nice, sometimes, to be somewhere new - somewhere free of those memories.

Sometimes, it was almost _too_ nice. 

(Those were the nights he ran home.)

Overwhelmed with the feeling that his life had become some sort of surrealist daydream, he would retreat next door, to spend the night in his own - old? - room. He reasoned that it wouldn’t do to wear out his welcome; he promised himself he would rely less on Mr. Wayne’s - and Alfred’s - hospitality.

(But he always came back. The empty house drove him out faster than it ever had before, when his parents were still alive – when their presence still echoed, in the jacket flung over a chair back, the shoes in the entryway.)

The first time Tim felt the need to escape, he prepared his justification carefully in his head. He expected to have to firmly – but politely – insist. But, after a glance at Mr. Wayne and a silent conversation that passed too rapidly for Tim to read, Alfred confined himself to an “Of course, Master Tim.” 

But on other nights – nights when Tim was content, when, despite all his many doubts, the residents of Wayne Manor had succeeded in making him feel almost at home… he would stay. After their dinners, Mr. Pennyworth was quick to reason him into it, to protest he not bother with the drive next door – not when there was a 'perfectly good bed with his name on it' upstairs. 

And the nights he stayed, Tim would invariably wake up to his choice of any breakfast – and a perfectly brewed cup of coffee.

(Tim was smart enough to realize he was more or less being bribed – or, perhaps, _trained,_ the dog to Alfred’s Pavlov - but he couldn’t find it in himself to be upset.)

(Perhaps, if they hadn’t been so good about letting him go when he needed space, he might have felt something like resentment.)

Not that it was all smooth sailing; there was still that initial awkwardness to get past, which no amount of “How was your day?” and “Fine, yours?” could alleviate.

Thankfully, Tim had a lifetime of habits to fall back on – he was, after all, still a Drake. He’d learned his mealtime conversational skills from a pair of workaholic corporate executives, and even started following the business pages at age eleven as a result. The same techniques that had once been used to draw Jack out of his head, to pull Janet’s gaze away from her inbox, were useful with a bit of fine-tuning. 

After the first week, Tim started to relax. It helped that Bruce seemed strangely… _hesitant_ to ask anything too intrusive – as if he, too, was unsure as to where the boundaries of their new arrangement fell. 

It was surprisingly easy to avoid the one subject that Tim dreaded coming up. 

(It wasn't that he was _lying_ to Bruce - or Alfred, for that matter, he told himself.)

 _(Lie of Omission,_ the voice of his late Bubbe Drake, like some kind of grandmotherly conscience, protested in response.) 

It was just, well.

He didn’t know Mr. Wayne well enough to be sure how he would react. 

And so he hadn’t exactly... informed his new guardian about the whole, not-attending-school thing. 

It's not like he was actually truant, after all. Tim endured most of one hellish week of class – full of pitying stares, pointed whispers, and more insincere condolences than he could stomach – before deciding. Much to Ives' disappointment, Tim had officially withdrawn from Gotham Heights High. 

He’d like to be able say he wasn’t hiding it, either - that, on nights he stayed over, the only reason he made sure to be out of the Manor by eight-thirty was so as not to overstay his welcome. 

(But he’d never been particularly good at lying to himself.)

 _(I’ll tell them soon,_ he reasoned to himself, _this is not the hill your independence dies on.)_

Timothy Jackson Drake had been the legal ward of Bruce Wayne for just over a month when he accidentally tipped his hand. The two were sharing the den, just before dinner. Tim had gathered the mail from the house next door to sort through; junk mail was torn in half, bills set to one side. An innocuous envelope addressed to “Tim Drake” tugged at his interest, and he slid a finger under the flap, curious. 

(When he saw the contents, it felt like he’d been hit over the head with a baseball bat.)

(They were tickets – a pair of tickets, to the self-proclaimed ‘Greatest Car Show on the Eastern Seaboard!’ He’d completely forgotten about the conversation where his father promised to take him – he must have ordered them before – before.)

Quickly, he stuffed the tickets back and shuffled the envelopes, before what he was feeling – _whatever_ it was that he was feeling – had the chance to spill. 

The next envelope – also addressed to him – while interesting, was not nearly so emotionally fraught. He must have made some sort of noise in reaction, because the sound of Bruce’s typing paused.

“What’s it?” he asked, vaguely interested. 

“My GED results,” Tim answered, unthinking, “I did better on the History section than I thought.” 

Then he realized what he’d said, and darted a glance up through his bangs. Bruce was peering at him over the coffee table in between them, eyes narrowed as something like comprehension dawned. He moved the computer off his lap, shutting it without regard for whatever document he was working on as his laser-focus seared into the teen.

“Timothy,” he said, and-

_Okay, that’s not fair. When did Bruce learn the disappointment-voice trick? Has Dad’s ghost been giving him pointers?_

“I know that you don’t see me as your _real_ godfather,” he continued, something like exasperation leaking out around the edges of his dry tone. Tim winced. “But, if you would set that aside for a moment and just - pretend.

“Are you, or are you not, going to school?”

Tim hesitated; did those classes he was auditing count? 

“Sort of?”

“Let me be more specific. When you leave in the morning every Monday through Friday, do you take yourself to Gotham Heights High and remain there until released at the end of the day?”

Hmm, that _was_ very specific. “No?” 

“Where, then, have you been going?” 

“Well, um. Lot- lots of places?” 

And that - that was Janet’s ‘I swear you will be the death of me’ look. 

“Please. Elaborate.”

So Tim did.

“Well, there’s WB+G - uh, the lawyers. About my emancipation? And D.I., now that the building was reopened. I had to get some movers to box up my parents things, um. And there’s the precinct, to check up on the case, and, and then I took the SAT last week? And the GED before that,” he listed.

“I’ve just started auditing a couple of classes at GU, and I’m still going to judo, and I’ve been to Ives’ - my friend Sebastian? - a couple of times. Um, and the - the cemetery, once. And the marina, and the park and stuff, to take pictures. And the library, to return some CDs?” 

He stopped, then thought of one more. “And home. I go home, sometimes.”

Tim couldn't decipher the look on Bruce's face.

“Is there. Any reason, in particular, you felt the need to hide this?” he finally asked.

And. He had a note of - _something_ in his voice. The tone was… not quite neutral. Almost - _guarded_ , maybe? Not what Tim expected. 

(Well, he hadn't really known what to expect, had he. But he was _prepared_ for the anger; frustration. To argue, but do so while keeping his head - to fight fire with cold reason. Not whatever… _this_ was.)

Tim resisted the urge to shrink back, to pick at the hem of his sweater.

“I mean. It never really came up?” slipped out. He almost winced, regretting the statement as soon as he voiced it. After all, Tim pretty much _ensured_ that would be the case. "Sorry, I. That. I should have-"

He met the older man's eye, having ducked his gaze at some point without meaning to. The searching look in Bruce’s sharp gaze seemed to pin him in place for a moment. But then, he blinked, and some of the tension seemed to leak out of the room.

"Hm,” came Bruce’s response. Tim didn’t really know what to make of it. Until:

“So, the GED?" he continued. A small twitch ran through his arm - as if the motion of reaching out was aborted before it could truly begin.

Tim considered. 

Then, he held out the packet. "Ninety ninth percentile in science and math. The others aren't as high, but it’s -” he shrugged. “Good enough."

Bruce glanced over the papers as he took them. Not for long, as if doubting Tim’s word and needing to confirm, but he _did_ look - for longer than a dismissive glance. There was something inexplicable in his next look at Tim.

(After all, you can’t be… _proud_ of someone you barely know. Can you?)

Of course, the focus was very much on Tim for the rest of the evening. When Alfred called them to dinner, whatever Bruce was working on had been forgotten in favor of a restrained interrogation. 

(At least, Tim _suspected_ that restraint was being exercised. He didn't exactly have proof.)

At Wayne's insistence, he repeated for Alfred what he'd told Bruce in the den. Only, the second time around, it came out less in a mangled rush. (After all, if Bruce hadn’t yelled at him, _Alfred_ was hardly going to. Granted, the raised eyebrow Tim's confession earned from the Englishman was an unfairly effective rebuke by itself.)

Suddenly, Bruce interrupted.

“A moment. Did you say the precinct? As in, GCPD?” he clarified. Tim blinked, then nodded.

“Why?” Bruce sounded puzzled.

“I wanted to see what they would tell me about the investigation. Into the bombing that - the bombing at D.I.”

“Ah." The slight winkle between Bruce's dark brows didn't release with the explanation. "Didn’t I - I read somewhere that the culprit died in the explosion? A… disgruntled former employee, wasn’t it?”

Tim realized he was toying with his potatoes, and stopped. “That’s what the news reports said, yeah.” 

“And did the police give you something different?”

“No,” Tim drew out the word a bit, keeping a tight leash on his frustration. “They wouldn’t talk to me at all. It’s not like I really expected them to listen to a kid but, I thought, maybe…” Tim shook his head sharply, “But they just said the investigation is closed and sent me away.”

There was a pregnant pause. 

“You don’t think the investigation should be closed,” Bruce stated, with a certainty that surprised the teen.

Tim pursed his lips, reluctant to admit what Bruce's too-keen gaze had gleaned.

“Why?” Bruce asked again, and Tim looked him in the eye, intending to brush it off. 

But. 

There was something there, and...

“It’s just, the guy they said did it? I don't - I don’t _buy_ it.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “You knew him?”

 _(And Tim recalled:_

_“I shouldn’t have pushed him, Jack. Have kept pushing him,” his mother said._

_“He’s been delivering the impossible every time you asked for a decade now. How were you supposed to know this would tip him over the edge.” Jack tried to reassure her. “Besides, are we sure he’s done? Didn’t he threaten to quit once before, over that whole Millennium business?”_

_But she had just sighed and shook her head. “No, I think he’s really done this time. But… I suppose it can’t hurt, to let him know the job is there if he wants it.”)_

Tim shook his head, dismissing the memory. “No, not really. But mom - she _talked_ about him.

“They claim he was upset over the new project D.I. was announcing. That he was angry at having been fired before it could launch. But he wasn’t fired - he _quit.”_

Bruce looked considering, but not entirely convinced. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t… one of those cases? Where an employee only quits to avoid the stain of dismissal? It’s not uncommon for an employer to allow the illusion of amiable separation, as insurance against any allegation of wrongful termination.”

Tim grasped for the words to explain why he was sure that wasn’t the case. “No, you don’t - Dad always stuck to what he called the ‘traditional’ side of things, negotiating contracts, dealing with shippers, suppliers. Mom was different. Dad said she was always finding big idea people - she called them her ‘diamonds in the rough’. Carl Schofield - the guy they said did it - was one of those people. He’s a large part of why D.I. got into the data storage business in the first place; his name was on half the patents in the new initiative before he left. And mom - she would have given him his job back in a heartbeat, I know it. She probably would have let him name the price, too,” he added. 

“That could be,” Bruce offered. “But… people do strange things, sometimes. Sometimes we never fully understand their motives. I’m sure the police considered all the evidence.”

Tim sighed, uttered a resigned, “Yeah.” He felt a little bit better, at least, from having gotten it all off his chest. He looked down at his plate; his formerly neat serving of potatoes _au gratin_ looked much worse for the idle way he’d been carving them up with his fork.

Alfred cleared his throat. “Well. I would like to hear more about this dojo. How long have you been a student of judo?” he asked, trying to pull Tim back into more lighthearted conversation. His focus recaptured, Tim missed the look that was shot the butler’s way, remaining unaware just how much he'd given Bruce Wayne to consider.

Tim’s legal guardian almost never got up in time for breakfast. Despite that, Tim got the feeling Bruce Wayne knew exactly which nights he had a teenage houseguest. 

He never seemed the least bit surprised when Tim ran into him - uncommon outside of mealtimes, but not unheard of. It happened with growing frequency, over the course of that first month. Bruce would be reading in the library, when Tim got in the mood to wander, or working in the den, in place of his study, TV on at a low murmur in the background. 

Whenever it happened, Tim’s first instinct was to turn and retreat rather than interrupt. But, no matter how quiet Tim thought he was stepping, or how far out of the man’s field of vision he should have been, Bruce always seemed to know he was there. 

“Come in,” he would offer, and it never felt polite to turn around and leave _then_. 

They didn’t tend to say much. Bruce would offer the remote, or - occasionally - ask Tim what he was working on. Then, they would lapse back into silence. Even after that day in the den, Bruce seemed content to leave the inquisition to Alfred at the dinner table.

So, it wasn't entirely inconceivable that _Bruce_ would seek out _Tim_ to speak to him, but it wasn't routine, either.

"Tim," he said one afternoon, having done just that. "I received a - rather overdue - call today from Ms. Adams. To set up that home visit we've been expecting. I wanted to give you a heads up. ” 

With an effort of will, Tim forced his shoulders to stay relaxed at the mention of his case worker. 

"Oh," he said. Though his voice came out remarkably level, Tim didn't kid himself that he was fooling anyone. "What time?"

“It's next Thursday, at four."

Bruce Wayne didn’t think he was a fan of this Ms. Adams. He tried to withhold judgement - a drive-by at the Drakes’ funeral reception was admittedly not enough to measure anyone’s character. And he thought he had enough of a grip on his own impulses to keep the instinctive dislike of social workers he developed as a child from prejudicing him in the current case. 

But still, he didn’t think much of someone who professed to only be concerned for a child’s welfare - and then didn’t see or speak to said child for over a month after. 

So he was unprepared to find something of an ally in Tim Drake’s caseworker.

Their first (or second, he supposed begrudgingly) meeting got off to an... inauspicious start. After that first call to arrange the requisite home visit, she rather belatedly demanded a schedule change. 

“Something has come to my attention,” she explained, barely twenty-four hours before the revised time. Bruce allowed himself a slight frown in his W.E. office, secure behind the audio-only form of communication. 

“Of course,” he answered, in as agreeable manner as he could manage. “We’ll see you then.”

When he relayed the news over dinner, both his companions blinked. 

“How... _considerate_ of her,” Alfred remarked dryly.

Tim frowned, brow furrowing in something like concern. “I’ll be cutting it close, getting back from GU in time. I guess… since I’m just auditing, I could skip?” he said, reluctantly.

Bruce waved him off. “Come when you’re done. I’m sure Ms. Adams and I will find something to talk about.” 

Tim chewed the inside of his cheek. “Are you sure? It’s... mostly review for me, I’ll still be able to follow along…”

Recognizing the teen’s nerves, Bruce purposefully caught his eye. “It’s fine,” he said, soft but firm. “Alfred and I can handle it.” 

Tim caught the slight, reassuring smile Alfred aimed his way when he turned to look, and relaxed incrementally. 

“Alright,” he agreed, and returned to his dinner.

Which is how it happened that Tim was out of the Manor when Ms. Adams arrived the next day. Alfred was the first to greet her at the door, of course, forewarned by her arrival at the gate. Bruce made for the parlour when he detected the crunch of gravel on the drive - it was not a case where there was any strategic advantage to delaying. He reached it at almost the same time as Alfred and their guest, noting her heather gray slacks and lipstick-red cardigan as she shed her long black coat.

"Ms. Adams," he greeted, as Alfred took the coat.

"Mr. Wayne. Thank you for being flexible."

"Of course. You mentioned that something came up?"

"About that. When will Timothy be joining us?"

"Ah. He should be home from class shortly." 

She leaned forward a degree, demurely crossed legs belying a sharply focused gaze. "And where is that, exactly? Only, when I called GHH, I was informed that Timothy Drake is no longer enrolled - but, oddly enough, they don't have record of a transfer."

Bruce smiled his best guileless smile. "Ah, of course. There wouldn't be. Tim has acquired his GED. He is currently auditing classes at Gotham University, at least through the end of the semester."

The social worker blinked. "I see."

In the gap, Bruce could have elaborated - could have taken control of the conversation, probably could have steered the whole visit as he wanted until it was over and signed off in record time. Somewhat curious as to what she had to say, he held his silence.

It both was - and wasn't - what he expected. Oh, the disapproval was there, the ill-concealed doubt. 

("Are you sure that is what is best for Tim? After… after everything?") 

But in the verbal spar that followed, Bruce realized Rebekah Adams was more perceptive than he would have given her credit for - all unknowing, she hit the nail on the head when she admitted to anxiety that Timothy had 'taken it upon himself to arrange things' when she learned he was no longer enrolled. 

In return, Bruce responded with a jab that was more sledgehammer than subtle poke, needling her - politely, of course - over the sudden concern from her department after it's long absence.

She flushed, the rising color barely visible on her complexion, but to her credit didn't flinch away.

She pursed her lips. "May I be frank?"

"I don't see why you wouldn't be."

"I understand how you must have a... certain experience with my department that negatively colors your opinion. 

The system is not always kind to those of us who end up in - or near - it."

Bruce kept his politely neutral expression. The background check he ran on Ms. Adams hadn't turned up anything like what she was suggesting - but he could tell she _was_ being frank with him, as she suggested.

"But, I promise you. It's not for lack of trying. We are all just trying to figure out what is best for the children. My colleagues who were assigned Tim's case - before it was shuffled back to me - might have found it to be a low priority, due to... certain factors." Her red lips pulled slightly to one side in a half-frown.

Cynically, Bruce wondered how many dollar signs drive that disinterest.

"You don't agree."

To his surprise, she didn't dance around the subject further.

"There is more to a child's happiness than money, Mr. Wayne," she commented, and he found himself relenting. 

He decided to repay her candor in kind. 

"I assume you are aware of Tim's plan for legal emancipation?"

Ms. Adams blinked at the apparent non-sequitur. 

"He did mention something about that, yes,” she said, tentative.

"According to legal counsel, his chances are near one hundred percent, uncontested, or - otherwise."

"I'm afraid you've lost me," she admitted with a wrinkled brow. "What does that have to do with Tim's enrollment - or lack thereof?"

"Not a thing. It does, however, pertain to what is best for Tim."

Sensing there was more, she inclined her head slightly and waited for him to continue.

"As it stands, I see a few possibilities. I can exert my right to parental control as Tim's legal guardian, regardless of his wishes, until such a time as he becomes emancipated - at which point our connection is severed, he moves back into that house next door with the housekeeper who adores him and we never hear from him again.

"You can find me unfit for guardianship, move Tim into a home or a series of foster placements for a few months until his emancipation, where he does the same and we never hear from him again…" he said, ticking off a second finger. "Or, I can provide a home, trust him to make decisions about his life as if he were already emancipated, and hope that he comes to me if needed.

"He may still walk out that door on the day of his emancipation and not look back, but at least I won't have driven him to it."

She considered him for a long moment. Finally, she sighed.

“There _are_ good foster homes, Mr. Wayne,” she insisted - but it was in a tired, somewhat resigned manner. “But there always seem to be more children than placements. I’m happy Tim has someone who cares about him.

“For what it’s worth, if you need anything - a referral for a grief counselor; help with school paperwork - I hope you’ll let me know.”

By the time Tim made it back to Wayne Manor after the Principles of Engineering Design lecture, it was later than he would have liked. He let himself in, following his gut and the faint sound of voices to the parlor with a sense of trepidation.

Even with the reassuring nod Alfred tilted his way, when they almost ran into each other in the hallway right outside, he was not expecting what he found.

Ms. Adams was smiling pleasantly, but that wasn’t the shock.

It was the faint upward slant to _Bruce’s_ mouth - not what anyone would call a smile, certainly, but undoubtedly present - that surprised him. 

(Brucie’s smile, he might have imagined. A look of disinterest, or disdain, he could have anticipated.) Tim’s steps stuttered briefly as he entered the room. The social worker turned her smile on him, conveying her welcome. 

“Mrs. Adams,” he greeted - and his mind promptly went blank.

Thankfully, though, the conversation was easy enough to navigate on auto-pilot. He answered questions about his classes; he confirmed that he was doing ‘okay’, whatever that might mean. She asked if she could see his room; he showed her the way. 

He smothered the flash of anxiety that reared its head, when he couldn’t remember if he made the bed that morning. (He had.)

In the end, it wasn’t even half the ordeal he had feared. And when the social worker left, saying warm goodbye to Bruce that he returned… so, too, went a weight off Tim’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter, uh, dull? maybe kinda. The weakest one yet? definitely. But for whatever reason I... couldn't cut any of it and move on.  
> (I'm definitely trying to show how I imagine the dynamics in this AU...  
> Because Tim is not Dick. He is not a child with no-one else in the world. He's a teenager, he's self-sufficient and self-contained, he has resources. I think, the slide from 'temporary godfather' to 'oh my god this is my kid that i love how could i ever not think i wanted him as a son' happens a little... subtler, if not slower. It probs would take a while for Bruce to admit to himself how much he cares, even as he's trying to make Tim comfortable he doesn't realize why he _wants_ that so much.  
> Ugh, I hope I did that^ justice. As always, let me know what you think?)  
> 💚theginge
> 
> (Also,Y'all! The social worker is not the bad guy :)  
> Just wanted to take this chance - though the system is, as Rebekah said, 'not always kind', for the most part that's the _system._ Social workers and those in family services fight the good fight on limited budget & limited resources, and it's easy to get burnt out - the few I know who do it are angels, bless them.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A minor setback has Tim - and the other inhabitants of Wayne Manor - in a holding pattern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time goes a little weird in this one (we've skipped forward some from the end of the last chapter). In general:  
>  _flashback_  
>  preset  
>  _(flash-forward)_ *  
> *none in this chapter

_It was a clear summer night in Bristol, North of Gotham. Outside it was cool enough that the men weren't sweating through their suits, and warm enough for the comfort of the women in their cocktail dresses. A section of the south lawn nearest the back patio was lit by torchlight, with the faint scent of citronella on the air. The string quartet had taken a break after sundown, but the sound of a dozen of conversations drifted out the open french doors._

_The house was nice enough, though currently strained to capacity by the size of the guest list. Tim's only complaint was the disappointing lack of stars. He'd hoped, when his parents mentioned moving out of the city, that he would finally get to see real constellations in person._

_Of course, his parents had other concerns on their mind than light pollution when they decided to get out of Gotham proper. They didn't discuss it with their nine-year-old son at the time, but Tim knew what had them spooked._

_The partner of Janet Drake's E.A. had been shot and killed in a mugging, barely four blocks from their condo… despite its favorable location In one of Gotham's nicer neighborhoods._

_It was that same week that Janet pulled her son out of fencing and brought him to a dojo instead. Tim didn't mind; he'd never made friends with the mostly older students at the fencing club. His lack of height - and, therefore, reach - didn't hold him back the same way in beginner judo classes, and he tested for his first belt before his tenth birthday._

_Despite the word 'housewarming' that had been proudly calligraphed onto party invitations, the move had actually been completed several months before. The true catalyst for the night's event was, of course, the opportunity to court a new business partner for Drake Industries. Tim was told he could either remain upstairs for the night, or be polite and presentable when in view of the guests. He'd chosen the later out of curiosity, and tried his best to stay out of the way while he people-watched. He stayed until the press of bodies - and body heat - began to feel suffocating, and then slipped outside._

_Tim sniffed, dragging the back of his hand across his face at the sudden prickle in his nose. It took a moment to register the dark smear as blood under the flickering torchlight, and then his hand flew to his face. He felt a moment of panic at not knowing when the nosebleed had started, worried the lower half of his face might be covered like some kind of flesh-eating zombie. Thankfully, it felt like the wetness was only just under his nose._

_He cupped a hand over the lower-half of his face, pinched his nose, and headed for the nearest bathroom. Inside the house, he slipped around knots of guests, trying to stay unnoticed. The door off of the parlour that should have meant sanctuary was locked, so he let out a frustrated huff and whirled toward the half-bath under the stair._

_He had almost made it, when a wall suddenly blocked his path, and Tim crashed into it. The wall - no, the_ man _\- turned._

_"You alright there?" he asked, and Tim's hand dropped from his face in surprise as he recognized Bruce Wayne. Despite their invitation, Tim's parents had seemed certain their new neighbor wouldn't show._

_Bruce's eyes widened, and Tim clapped his hand back over his face. "Excuse me," he tried to say, the words muffled in his palm._

_Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, lightly guiding him in the very direction he wanted to go. With Bruce Wayne at his side, the path to the restroom cleared instantly._

_"Here," Bruce Wayne's voice was gruff but kind as he dropped the lid of the toilet so Tim could sit. Tim grabbed at the roll of toilet paper, wadding some up and scrunching it under his nose as he tilted his head back._

_"Not like that. You don't want the blood running down your throat," the man corrected, crouching in front of Tim and paying no mind to the wrinkles he was putting in his suit. "Pinch here," he said, demonstrating on his own nose, "And lean forward a bit."_

_Tim followed the instructions, holding the tissues under his nose with one hand while the other pinched just under the bridge of his nose. Bruce gathered some toilet paper of his own, and stood up to wet it at the sink. He gently moved Tim's hand out of the way, not the one that held pressure on it but the one holding the tissues. Tim's eyes crossed as he watched Mr. Wayne wipe away the smeared blood from his face with the damp toilet paper. He threw away the bloody wad and handed Tim a clean piece to catch any drips._

_"Thanks," Tim offered, his voice sounding strange from his pinched nostrils. "Sorry."_

_Bruce shook his head. "It's alright. These things happen."_

_After a moment, Tim shifted and let go. "I think it's stopped," he said._

_"Give it another second, just in case," he advised, then rose to wash his hands at the tap._

_"I don't think we're been introduced. What's your name?" he asked, turning back._

_"Tim. Timothy Drake."_

_"Nice to meet you, Tim Drake. I'm Bruce Wayne."_

_Tim rolled his eyes. "Everybody knows_ that," _he said, then flushed at his own rudeness._

_But the man just chuckled. "Of course you do, what was I thinking," he said, and Tim relaxed._

_"How did you know?" Tim asked after a quiet moment. Bruce gave a look of confusion. "About - not tilting your head back?"_

Tim's phone rang, startling him out of the memory.

"Hello?"

"Tim Drake? This is Ana Roberts, with Gerald White's office? He was wondering if you'd been in to see him today."

"Sure, I can come by."

"Great, we'll see you then!" 

Her chipper voice was replaced by the disconnect tone.

Tim hung up the phone without looking, gaze still locked on the Wayne family portrait. In the picture, Bruce looked around eight years old; it can't have been long after when Thomas and Martha were killed by a mugger outside the cinema.

The sound of a cleared throat behind him made Tim jump. It felt almost like he was seeing something he wasn't meant to see, even though the picture was hung prominently in a public hall. When Tim turned, Bruce nodded at the portrait.

"I can't even remember how many tries it took to sit for that - my father kept getting called away. He was a doctor," Bruce explained.

"I know," Tim tilted his head with a slight smile. "He taught you not to tilt your head back for a nosebleed."

Bruce looked at the teen, startled. Tim's smile dimmed.

"You don't remember, do you," he said. "My parents' housewarming?"

"I…" Bruce didn't know what to say. He knew they met a few times over the years, but he couldn't recall the specific instance Tim was referencing.

"It's nothing," Tim said, shrugging it off. To someone who could read body language, though, the slight droop of his shoulders gave away that he cared more than he was trying to let on. Bruce's stomach twisted to be the source of that disappointment. 

"Anyway. I have to go, Mr. White called," the teen said said. He was gone before Bruce could figure out what to say.

He puzzled over the conversation on his way to the study, unable to dismiss it in favor of work. His ever-buzzing mind had already worked out approximately when the occasion would have happened; the allusion a housewarming placed it after the Drakes moved out to Bristol. Knowing the Drakes, it likely would have been a full society event, though of the tamer sort than the ones Bruce used to frequent when he was establishing his public persona. 

Curious, he navigated to the Gazette’s online archives. Between his keywords and the date range, the search function returned a single matching article. He skimmed it, noting his own name listed among the guests, but it was as thin on substance as he half-expected. He scrolled up to the top, searching for the paper’s date… and froze when he saw the headline.

“FIREBUG: CAUGHT!” it announced.

And Bruce remembered that night - well, no, but he remembered the aftermath. He’d still been relatively new to the night gig then, just finding his stride. Investigating a series of arsons, he had not been entirely prepared for what he would find. The encounter with Garfield Lynns was a blur, the result of a concussion he couldn’t say how he had received. He knew only that, somehow, he’d delivered the man to GCPD and made it back to the cave, and he only knew that because Alfred - and the Gazette - said so. The actual memories of that day, and a few from the week preceding, never returned even once he recovered. 

He had never regretted the missing time as much as he did now. Obviously their conversation had made an impact on Tim. He suspected it would have on him, as well, if not for the concussion; it wasn’t often, especially back then, that he spoke about his parents. And, worse, he could not even tell Tim _why_ it was he didn’t remember, not and maintain his secret. 

Despite several attempts, Bruce didn’t get any work done that afternoon. He was too preoccupied trying to figure out what to say to Tim at dinner; if there was even anything he _could_ say. At six, when he couldn’t put it off any longer, he went to join the others.

He found three place settings on the table, but all the chairs were empty. Bruce frowned; he rather expected to be the last to arrive. 

“Alfred?” He ducked into the kitchen. “Where’s Tim?” he asked, trying to remember if the teen had mentioned having plans. 

“I have not seen him this afternoon.” Though his tone was as staid as ever, a touch of worry had deepened the lines around his eyes. “Should I ring his cell?”

“I’ll do it,” Bruce said. 

A muffled ringing set Tim digging through the couch cushions for his phone. 

“Hello,” he answered, without checking the caller ID.

“Tim?” a voice - Bruce’s voice - asked, “Are you... alright?” 

Tim abruptly realized what time it must be. He had not moved from the couch where he landed after talking with Mr White in hours; the TV was on but he couldn’t say what it had been showing.

“Everything’s fine, I just lost track of time,” he said, then he bit his lip. “Actually. Is it cool if I bow out of dinner tonight?”

There came a pause. “Are you feeling sick?”

“No. I just... got some frustrating news.” 

“Hmm. Why don’t you come over and tell us about it then, drown your sorrows in Alfred’s famous eggplant parmesan?”

Tim blinked dully at the phone. Even though it was phrased like a request, Tim wasn’t stupid; this was most definitely one of those not-a-question times.

(He tried to remember. Was this the first time Bruce had… _not_ immediately granted a request for space? He wasn’t sure.)

He gave a mental sigh. The news did pertain to both of them, after all; might as well get it over with. 

“I’ll be there in a few,” he agreed.

Earlier, when he first heard, Tim had been furiously upset with the lawyer, though whether his anger had more to do with the setback or the man’s _c’est la vie_ attitude he couldn’t say. He’d expressed his disappointment - politely - and got out of the office as quick as he could. 

He drove a little too fast on the way home, wishing he’d taken his dad’s Benz, finally reclaimed from the parking deck under D.I., instead of the Lexus. But despite liberal use of the gas pedal to vent his frustration, anger had morphed into worry. Mr. White’s repeated assurances about the emancipation rang hollow after the judge’s ruling to delay the hearing. That worry now churned in his gut as he headed next door. By the time he made it to the manor, the heady smell of herbs, garlic, and parmesan was almost enough to make him sick. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he told Alfred, preparing himself for a scolding that never came.

“Ah, Master Tim, good evening,” came the sincere reply. 

He nodded to Bruce as he sat, who was giving him a measuring look.

“Food first, or news first?” Bruce asked. Tim fidgeted; considering his lack of appetite, it was probably best to get the ‘news’, as it were, out of the way.

Perhaps reading his mind, Bruce nodded. “News first.”

“I… remember when we talked about the emancipation procedure? I think I mentioned how, technically, getting a hearing while under the age of seventeen requires a judge to recognize extenuating circumstances? Well, I just found out from Mr. White the judge ruled against our E.C. claim.”

“And, what does that mean?” Alfred prompted when Tim hesitated.

Tim grimaced. “We can still file, but I won’t be granted a hearing until after I turn seventeen. That’s -”

“July,” Bruce finished, Tim blinking at him in surprise.

“Yeah. The 19th. Gerry - Mr. White - says we can appeal, but that he doesn’t recommend it, and it’s hardly likely to speed up the process much.” Tim dropped his eyes to his lap, before forcing them back up to meet Bruce’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I know that’s not what you - _we_ agreed-”

Bruce held up a hand in the universal ‘stop' gesture. “It’s alright, Tim, I’m not upset,” he reassured. “You will be welcome here as long as it takes - as long as you like. As I’m sure Alfred agrees.”

“Most assuredly, Master Bruce.”

“I mean, that’s easy for you to say. But what if this means Gerry was wrong about how the hearing goes, too, you could be stuck pretending to be my Godfather until I’m _eighteen_.” 

“And were that to happen, we would be delighted to have you around another year,” Bruce said in a firm voice. 

And Tim - well, despite the protest on the tip of his tongue, the little voice in his head that said _‘You don’t mean that’_ \- he wasn’t going to argue. It would be impolite to all but call Bruce a liar - however indirectly - in his own home. So he comforted himself with a pledge that it wasn’t going to come to that, and held his tongue. 

Even after the conversation at dinner, Alfred could still read the doubt in Tim, but the teen at least seemed more relaxed than when he arrived, so he let it rest. He made a mental note to talk it over with Bruce, sometime in private. 

As it turned out, the other man had much the same thought. Alfred headed downstairs after the boy left, deaf to the suggestion he stay for the night. 

“Tim go home?” Bruce gathered from his arrival. 

Alfred pursed his lips. “I think he’s still got the false idea we find him some kind of a burden. I oft’ get the feeling I am trying to convince a stray dog we mean well, rather than take care of an adolescent.”

“With Tim’s independent streak, wouldn’t a stray _cat_ be the better metaphor?” 

Alfred tilted his head. “Perhaps, although it would be a rare feline that was too polite to claw one’s helping hand - and Tim has hardly done us any harm.”

“Hmm,” Bruce agreed, turning fully away from the console. “Alfred, I know you are not entirely… happy with the way I have handled things-”

“Oh? Whatever gave me away?”

“I think it was when you told me ‘Master Bruce, I am most unhappy with the way you have handled this,’” he said, dry.

Alfred snorted. “I didn’t think you were listening. It hasn't stopped you from allowing Master Tim to return to that empty house at night, now, has it?”

“He’s sixteen, and you heard him at dinner - I’m only his ‘pretend’ godfather,” Bruce started to protest.

“I am certain there is a legal document somewhere which begs to differ.”

“A fact which Tim will _not_ appreciate being reminded of, I’m sure. It has to be on his terms, Alfred. We can’t push him.”

He could have argued further, but sighed instead; _after all, there is more than one way_ _to skin a cat,_ he thought. 

Bruce headed for the car. “No need to wait up tonight,” he said.

“And yet,” Alfred replied, “I think I shall.” 

Tim’s resolution to spend less time in the manor after that day wavered and collapsed in the face of Alfred’s genial yet relentless onslaught. He was unprepared to resist, to say the least.

The first time Alfred requested his assistance in the conservatory, they had barely been working half an hour when the butler insisted they break for tea. Somehow, after the break, Tim found himself not cleaning the large glass panes as he had been doing, but snapping pictures of the plants Alfred requested as he listened to their stories. The next thing he knew it was dinner time, and the work was done almost entirely without his assistance.

Then, there was the time Alfred asked how he felt about helping in the garage, and Tim was hardly going to turn down the chance to have a look at _Bruce Wayne’s_ cars. He took one look around, saw the Audi, and blurted, “Is that the _R8?”_

But Alfred just smiled at him. “Ah, yes. Would you like to take a look?” 

In his excitement, he forgot to even ask which vehicle they were meant to look at; there were five in the six-car garage. He climbed in and out, looked all around, until Alfred said, “Feel free to pop the hood,” and Tim was hardly going to turn down _that_ invitation, either. 

He spent a long few minutes with his head under the hood, before he guiltily remembered why they were there. But Alfred hardly seemed offended to have started the work himself, and Tim helped him finnish changing the transmission fluid for an older, and much less flashy, Lincoln Aviator. 

And, perhaps, the chores should have felt like Tim was being pressured to earn his way, or make up for the trouble his presence caused. Instead, he was slowly gathering the opposite impression.

See, while Tim might not be a people person, he’d made a point to make a study of them over the years. His whole life, he had watched those around him - had seen the way his mother commanded a room with a look, the way his father drew the people in it to him. He’d watched Ms. S, the first nanny he could remember, closely, and learned to recognize the barely-hidden sadness in her smile whenever she encountered a child who was fair, and blonde, and walked on chubby, unsteady legs. He’d discovered the way Mrs. Mac’s gruff, prickly exterior masked a gooey center, if you only knew how to reach it. He learned how to tell which adults talked to him because they cared about what he had to say, and which only wanted closer to his parents; similarly, he learned which of his peers saw his family’s wealth they looked at him, and which (like Ives, like Callie), just saw _Tim_. 

So Tim could see the evidence when it was right in front of him, in the old man’s every word and deed. It spoke only of kindness and affection, no matter how he watched for signs of irritation or displeasure. 

Still, he held off drawing the obvious conclusion - for months, in fact. Until the day when, several hours after Alfred requested Tim’s presence at the manor, the teen realized all he’d done was watch the old grey movie marathon on the TV while Alfred sewed patches onto the elbows of a sweater. When he caught Tim watching, the man raised an eyebrow in an inquiring sort of look. When Tim tried out a small smile, he just returned one of his own, and that pretty much proved it: it seemed Alfred enjoyed having him around.

Not that he ever stopped watching. He learned what expressions meant Alfred was in a particularly good mood, and the one - usually reserved for Bruce, though on one memorable occasion it had made an appearance when a telemarketer got a hold of the Manor’s landline - that meant he was especially frustrated. 

And then one day, he found that particular crease he had come to associate with Alfred’s fond amusement, but this time, it framed clear blue eyes set in a wrinkle-less face. 

That was the start, the first time Tim noticed how the ghosts of the older man’s already subtle expressions sometimes flitted across Bruce’s face. 

It was sometime after that the word ‘home’ took on a new meaning, at least in his head. It no longer referred _only_ to the house where he’d lived with his parents, but was regularly applied to Wayne Manor as well. The guestroom-that-he-slept-in became ‘his’ room as much as the one he kept next door. Breakfast with Alfred became as much of a habit as dinner with Bruce - which was no longer a requirement, a duty, but simply a part of his daily life.

Eventually, there came a day when he realized he hadn’t been “home” - to the other house, the empty one - in over a month. He waited for the panic, the guilt, to come… but it didn’t. 

Still, he made sure to visit his parents that week, despite the late-winter chill and the patches of not-quite-melted slush. He didn’t say much, just stayed until his fingers grew numb despite being buried in his pockets, then turned to go. 

(He didn't do it for them, not really. The dead aren't capable of feeling - not jealousy, not the passage of time. What use did they have for wilting bouquets of clipped flowers, however carefully chosen?)

(No, Tim thought. Graves are for the living. Like closure… and justice. After all, the dead were long past caring.)

_Tim was right, of course. He found out from a broadcast he wasn't even watching. The generic TV procedural serving as background noise while he kneaded his test database into shape had ended - with the foregone conclusion - to be replaced with the local newscaster. Even with the sound on low, Tim’s attention was grabbed early by a certain phrase._

_“...And in other news, the investigation into October’s bombing of the Drake Industries tower in Downtown Gotham has been reopened in the wake of a new arrest, GCPD says. An unnamed GothCorp executive was apprehended last night under suspicion of organizing the attack, originally thought to be the work of a disgruntled former D.I. employee. It is unknown at this time what new evidence led to the arrest, but sources close to the investigation have told GWN the infamous Batman was instrumental in the apprehension. More on this story, and other Gotham news, at nine-”_

_Tim clicked off the TV. He pressed himself deeper between two cushions on the sofa, even as the hand not holding the remote gripped the edge of his laptop tight. He made note, for the first time, of a subtle, uneasy tightness in his gut only as it loosened._

Well, _he thought._ I guess that’s that. 

_He bit his lip. wishing -_ not _for the first time - there was some way he could tell Batman ‘thank you.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a quickie :)  
> (note- if you Google it, New Jersey totally is one of the states that you file for emancipation at 16. But *hand waving* we're just gonna re-write the laws a bit for this 'verse, m'kay? Kay!)  
> As always, feel free to point out typos/etc. in the comments - I've gotten pretty lazy about proof-reading.  
> 💚theginge


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim turns seventeen. He gets the hearing he's been waiting for - and something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !! EDIT 7.17.20  
> Between when I posted this chapter late last night, and when I read the comments today, I realized I had somehow managed to chop off the last section (MY BAD). I don't know how, I remember having to fix the formatting several times and everything 😬😬  
> It's fixed now.

The day of the hearing arrived on the tail edge of a summer heatwave. The aircon in the Manor had been working overtime to combat the rising temperatures since Tim's birthday, little over a week before. When morning light began streaming in his window, Tim pulled on a pair of shorts over his boxers, and headed downstairs in the same thin t-shirt he had slept in.

Alfred, praise be, had coffee ready and waiting in the kitchen. He handed it over with only a single raised eyebrow.

“Breakfast, Master Timothy?”

“No thanks, Alfred,” Tim said, speech muffled from being pointed directly into his cup. “I need to run next door and get ready in a bit.”

“Ah. I _did_ think your attire rather... casual for the occasion.”

“Mhm,” Tim agreed. He drummed his fingers on the outside of the coffee mug.

“Is Bruce up?” he asked, after a moment.

Alfred gave him a knowing look. “If not, he will be shortly. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s out the front door with plenty of time to spare.”

Tim ducked his head, and didn’t bother insisting it wasn’t necessary. He had tried that already, only to have Bruce made it clear that, unless Tim didn’t _want_ him there, he would be. Instead, he kept quiet as he lingered over the coffee, soaking in the companionable silence. 

In his bedroom in the empty house - a room which had seen fewer and fewer nights of use as the months wore on - Tim picked out a charcoal gray suit by simple process of elimination. It was the only thing that (a) was appropriate, (b) still fit, and (c) had never been worn to a funeral.

The last thought he pushed resolutely out of his head, as he tied his tie with clumsy fingers. It was only the second time he had done so without someone to check his work. To straighten the knot, if needed. For a moment, Tim regretted not getting dressed at the manor.

He tugged his slightly damp hair into some semblance of order, and was ready with plenty of time to spare. Rather than stay put to kill time - and invite the nerves to set in - Tim headed for the garage. When he put the address of the county courthouse into the GPS, he felt a weird sort of twisting in his gut; too unpleasant to be butterflies, it was a little like anticipation and a little like dread.

Even driving as slow as he reasonably could - and stopping for a coffee he definitely didn’t need - Tim was going to be terribly early. For once, he wished for _more_ traffic, not less, as he followed the expressway over one bridge after the next on the way to south Gotham.

Tim followed the signs in Old Downtown to a basement-level parking structure. He considered waiting in the car, but lasted only a few minutes before the weight of a ticking clock drove him to throw open the door. With a sigh, Tim took his cooling coffee to the elevator, and rode in silence to the floor marked ‘Family Courts - Lobby’ on the building directory.

It was still early enough in the business day that the lobby was mostly quiet around him - though that changed quickly with the arrival of a pregnant mother of three. Tim practiced his breathing - in through the nose, four, out through the mouth - as he settled in to wait. 

Finally, Gerry - Mr. White - bustled in. “Ah, Timothy, very good. We’re in courtroom three, come along,” the portly lawyer said, leading the way. 

If Tim was honest, the courtroom didn’t look like much. It was no movie-ready set, all bright golden wood, gleaming with polish or lacquer. What wood there was was stained dark, the finish doing little to hide the wear and tear. They weren’t quite the first people present - there was a woman fiddling with office supplies in the court reporter’s box, and a man in one of the back rows who looked like he might even be asleep.

“Alright, I have a copy of your petition, here - the judge will have the original - and the transcript you sent over,” Mr. White was saying, in a voice just slightly lower than his normal volume. “The judge may ask you a few questions - just answer to the best of your ability, and we’ll be out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Tim nodded, hoping he was right. He opened the petition to the first page and stared at it without reading the words - he knew how it went, long strings of legalese, twenty syllables or more where one would do. It was quiet enough in the courtroom he could hear everything - the clicking of the court reporter, the squeak of the door when it opened. Another stranger slipped in and took a seat near the back; Tim frowned, wondering how much of an audience there was going to be - and if that was normal. 

He stiffened when Ms. Adams appeared, looking - perhaps - a little less put together than the last two times he saw her. She gave a small smile, nodding cordially, before taking a seat.

Pitching his voice so that it wouldn't carry, Tim leaned in and asked, "What's she doing here?" 

The lawyer turned, glancing where Tim indicated. "Ah, the case worker? Standard procedure, social services always sends someone to these things."

Despite the reassurance, Tim couldn’t find it in himself to relax. Instead, he kept a close eye on the door. When the third stranger slipped in, with a nod to the first, it clicked, and his scowl grew. He wondered who had tipped off the press - while the hearing might be a matter of public record, _someone_ had to have pointed the vultures in the right direction. 

When one of the reporters glanced his way, Tim shifted his gaze back to the empty judge’s bench. He continued to track new arrivals exclusively via the creak and groan of the courtroom door. 

Even with his back turned, Bruce’s entrance was as obvious to the teen as a neon sign. It was announced in a susurration of whispers, a sudden spike in the already considerable sense of anticipation that hung in the air.

Tim turned along with every eye in the room. Bruce strode down the center aisle, his navy blue suit impeccable and his face inscrutable. When he caught Tim’s eye, his gaze flicked to the side as if to indicate their audience; the slight, sardonic twist of his lips invited Tim to share in his distaste, a somewhat mocking disdain. Then he stopped short, slipping into a seat two rows back - and directly behind Mr. White. 

Tim felt-

Well. He wasn't sure quite what he felt.

Having Bruce there shouldn’t have been as reassuring as it was. After all, the man's absence would hardly have hurt his case at all. In the technical sense, as Tim’s guardian Mr. Wayne was the one he was petitioning to be emancipated _from._

(Except... that was never the point.) 

Tim wasn't seeking emancipation in an attempt to get out from under his (practically non-existent) parental control. It was about more than that; about being able to sign things on his own behalf, to deal with other adults on even footing - like the police who had refused to speak with him about his parents’ death, or the D.I. executive who tried to tell him he couldn’t be in his father’s office, wasn’t allowed to take books off the shelf... when they had been _his father’s_ books. 

And Bruce... he really seemed to understand that. This whole time, he had treated Tim almost as if he already _had_ that piece of paper that would entitle him to his full legal rights. The last few months - more than half a year - weren’t really what he would have expected, had it occurred to Tim to expect _anything_ on the day the article ran, the day that Bruce agreed to become his legal guardian.

 _(And - when exactly had he stopped tacking on those qualifiers, the ‘temporary’ ahead of guardian, the ‘fake’ ahead of godfather?)_

_“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Tim had protested the day he turned seventeen, just a week before, when Bruce announced he had a gift. The man had just responded with that smile - the one which was barely a twitch of his lips, the one it had taken Tim months to recognize, to catalogue._

_“I believe it’s a godfather’s prerogative,” he had said, a note that felt almost like teasing in his voice._

_And Tim’s curiosity grew, when, rather than handing over an envelope or something of the sort, Bruce started to walk away, obviously expecting Tim to follow._

_Perhaps the gift was in the study, he thought. But no, they passed the door where Bruce spent most of his evenings working, stopping outside a different one in the east wing. Tim thought it held an unused drawing room - at least, if he remembered his mental map correctly, from the days when he grew comfortable enough to explore the Manor on his own._

_He looked questioningly at Bruce when the man glanced back over his shoulder. There was a glint in his eye Tim couldn’t place - and he wasn’t sure that he liked the look of - and then Bruce threw open the door._

_But if it was supposed to be some kind of revelation, Tim didn’t understand. He peered into the dark room, trying to make out what might be so interesting about it. And then, Bruce reached around the doorframe and flipped a switch._

_Tim’s jaw might have literally dropped open. It wasn’t just a dark room; it was a_ darkroom. _He gaped, both at the room and the man. And, as usually when he was unprepared, he struggled to find the right words - or_ any _words - to say._

_Bruce had given him that look, the one that wasn’t amusement, or concern, but had some of the markers Tim hat catalogued from each._

_It was the_ same _look he was giving the teen now, actually._

Tim flushed, nodded a greeting, and twisted back around to face the front of the courtroom. He was not a moment too soon.

“All rise,” the bailiff's gruff baritone called out. 

The terse command was followed by a symphony of scrapes and shuffling, as Tim and all the rest followed his instruction. The judge - one S. Volgado, according to the name placket - entered from the door to her chambers. 

She wore her authority as easily as breathing. Tim took in her appearance - formal black robes, dark hair wound into a no-nonsense knot, impassive expression. In his examination, he almost missed the signal that allowed them to sit.

The Honorable Judge Volgado read over the paperwork in front of her, as if refreshing her memory. When she raised her gaze, it was to look them over; she took in her audience for a long moment before speaking.

"Mr Wayne," she said, unexpectedly. "I assume you are aware that you are in the wrong seat for these proceedings?" 

Her steady eyes didn't so much as flick across the aisle, to where the mirror of Tim's seat sat empty. 

Bruce stood, limbs moving in that smooth, confident way of his. "I'm just here to support Tim, your honor."

"Hmm… so you share the opinion that this court should sever your legal guardianship over Mr. Drake today?"

Tim winced at the bald phrasing.

“I... suppose you could put it that way.”

"And how would _you_ put it, Mr. Wayne?" she asked shrewdly.

Bruce smiled airily. “As you see, Timothy is very mature for his age - completely capable of taking care of himself. He honestly doesn’t need _me._ As much as I enjoy having him around, he has more than earned the right to his independence.

“In fact, he probably deserves it more than I did by the time I was _twenty-one,”_ he added, with that distinctly ‘Brucie’ smile-and-chuckle. The judge's lips pursed in a moue of distaste.

"Very well," she said, not a hint of emotion revealed by her tone. The slightest flick of two fingers served for a dismissal, and Bruce folded back into his seat.

Next, the woman's shark-like gaze turned on Tim. He resisted the urge to fidget. 

"Mr. Drake. I am given to understand you have obtained your GED."

Tim stood. "Yes, your honor."

"And is that the culmination of your educational ambition?"

Tim swallowed, trying to coax some moisture back into his dry mouth. "No, your honor. I was enrolled in six credit hours this spring, as a part-time student at GU. I… have a copy of this semester's transcript with me."

This time, the two fingers twitched to beckon him closer, and, like a puppet on a string, he followed their command. Copy of his first semester transcript in hand, he approached the bench. His steps almost reflected the confidence that he felt; even with only two classes under his belt, he doubted the gleaming four-point-oh could _hurt_ his case. 

Once the paper was handed up, Tim turned to retreat back to Mr. White’s side. It was a quick trip; the judge was just looking up from reviewing the transcript as Tim retook his seat. While her expression revealed very little - certainly nothing so obvious as actual _approval_ \- a hint of something like it glimmered in her eyes.

Tim sat, mentally bracing himself for the inquisition. While he had by no means memorized the dozen-plus pages of his official Petition to Emancipate, he was familiar with all the information that had gone into it, the careful construction of facts to support their argument. 

When the judge’s gaze again swung away from him, Tim only dared relax for a moment before they landed on their target.

"Adams, isn't it? What is the Department of Children and Families' interest in this matter?"

Looking startled to be called upon, the social worker fumbled with the notebook in her lap as she hurried to stand. 

"Yes, your honor. As Timothy's caseworker, I was assigned to his case after the death of Mr. and Mrs. Drake, and oversaw his transition into the guardianship of Mr. Wayne. I'm merely present as an observer."

"You have nothing further to add to these proceedings?"

"No, your honor."

The sound the judge made as the social worker returned to her seat was just a syllable short of a true 'harrumph'. Fabric whispered as she reclined back into her seat, almost all of which was hidden by the drape of her ropes.

For a long moment, she seemed to consider, her gaze sweeping over the room like a hunting hawk. 

"We-ell..." the judge finally drawled. When she continued, her words had the air of an official pronouncement - and the verbosity to match. 

"While I, along with the state of New Jersey, recognize the necessity of the recourse that is the legal emancipation of a minor child for use in those cases where all parties concerned can find no better option, such a recourse is intended to follow the exhaustion of all possible alternatives. Legal emancipation by means of court order is _not_ intended as an act of expediency," she expounded. 

Tim prepared himself for disappointment.

"However. Given that the evidence before me serves to satisfy the petitioner's claim as to both the ability to self-support and the capability to self-determine, and as the identified concerned parties have not seen fit to contest the matter with respect to any better interests of the child, I can find no justification to deny the petition as given.

"Therefore, let the record show that the petitioner, Mr. Timothy Jackson Drake, ward of the court under the guardianship of Mr. Bruce Thomas Wayne, and having yet to reach the age of his majority, shall hereafter have revoked the disabilities of a minor, investing him with all those rights and responsibilities of the emancipated: including, but not limited to, the capacity to contract, the capacity to sue or be sued, the capacity to marry, and the capacity to consent to medical treatment.

"Congratulations, Mr. Drake.”

The sharp, crisp _thwack_ of the gavel rang out in the wake of her pronouncement. Somehow, the sound seemed feeble against the drone of formal phrases that echoed in Tim's ears.

 _That's… it?_ he wondered dubiously.

The anticlimax - and the way the tension abruptly drained out of his limbs - left him in a bit of a daze. Tim stood when Mr. White stood; he followed the aisle up to the large double doors when the lawyer did. He didn't notice whether the gaggle of reporters had exited before them, or were being uncharacteristically silent. He did notice that Bruce waited until they passed, then trailed along behind.

Tim snapped back to himself in the lobby. The weight of Bruce's hand on his right shoulder served to ground him, and he just barely remembered his manners

"... for your assistance," Bruce was saying as he shook Mr. White's hand. 

"Yes, thank you for everything," Tim agreed, duplicating the action. 

“My pleasure. I dare say we should have the official court order by the end of the week - I’ll send along a copy, for your records.”

(The hand stayed on his shoulder, comforting in its weight and warmth, until the lawyer took his leave.)

Then: "Well, Tim. What do you think. Shall we have an early lunch to celebrate escaping the Honorable Viper's courtroom unscathed?"

Tim considered the idea - the two of them in their suits, sitting uncomfortably in a formal, upscale restaurant - and promptly discarded it.

Tiredly, he countered: "Why don't we head home instead? Tell Alfred the good news."

(In his weariness, Tim didn't put much thought into what he was saying. Didn’t find anything odd about his phrasing.

Didn't catch the reaction to a certain, four-letter word.) 

Bruce smiled. "Alright," he agreed. 

When Bruce took a seat in the courtroom in his linen suit, the air was far from stuffy; the building was well cooled despite the rising temperature outside. Yet, something about the situation had his tailored jacket feeling far more constricting than it ever had before.

It took all of his considerable control to smother the knee-jerk urge to protest, to squash the denials that threatened, all unexpectedly, to bubble up when the judge spoke of 'severing' his legal guardianship.

All too soon, it was over. The sound of the gavel was almost tame against the punch to the solar plexus that was hearing "Congratulations, Mr. Drake," in those dry tones.

(It should have been like a weight off his chest. One less stress to manage, one less thing to worry over during his endless fight to raise Gotham up to the city he knew she could be.

Instead, with every inflation of his lungs, his breath seemed to catch slightly against the new feeling of a knot that had formed just under his breastbone.)

Bruce nodded to Ms. Adams when she caught his eye, then followed Timothy - and his lawyer - out of the courtroom. When the dazed look had yet to leave the teen's eye by the time they reached the lobby, he dared to reach out - reasoning to himself that the point of contact was wholly for Tim's reassurance.

It almost turned his stomach, to make the offer of a 'celebratory' lunch out. But Tim had worked for his emancipation, had worried over it, and deserved to have the effort recognized. So, as they waited for the elevator to arrive at the lobby level, he forced out the invitation - along with a dollop of 'Brucie' charm to smooth the way. 

But then. Tim declined.

And, well...

It was fortunate that the elevator arrived when it did. Had the teen observant been paying closer attention to their reflections - warped slightly but still recognizable in the bright, shiny brass of the elevator doors before they opened - he might have caught the reaction his words caused. To someone with Bruce's usual control over his every moment, the small twitch was the equivalent of a full-body stumble, and he failed to control it. 

Because. 

By the end of the day when the paperwork was all filled and filed, the (short) chapter of Bruce's life as a legal guardian would be over.

And yet.

It was the first time he could remember hearing Tim refer to the Manor... as _home._

That evening found the residents of Wayne Manor - all three of them - arrayed around the dinner table in what had become their usual places. The youngest smiled easily, shoulders relaxed as if the weight he carried was suddenly lighter. The oldest looked on fondly, the two of them relaxed and comfortable in one another's presence. 

And Bruce Wayne, well.

Had you asked him two years, a year, even six months before, whether the large, sprawling Manor wasn't too large for one man and his butler _cum_ father-figure, he would have… not quite _laughed_ it off, per se, but certainly dismissed the idea in a heart-beat. Now, however… now, it almost hurt to imagine the grand old halls without the quiet, steady presence of their third and youngest occupant - of not being able to return after a long day of playing trained monkey for the who's-who of WE, to find Tim contentedly working on a half-dozen projects in the den, or helping Alfred in the conservatory. 

"Now, I think it should be obvious, but just in case you didn't realize," Alfred was saying. "No piece of paper, however official, is going to change my expectation that you are on time for supper, young Master Tim," he instructed firmly, but with an undercurrent of good cheer. 

And Tim - that was his honest, happy smile, as evident in the crinkle of his eye as the twitch of his lips.

"Of course, Alfred," he agreed placidly. "I wouldn't dream of tardiness."

(And this - this was how it was supposed to be.)

Bruce cleared his throat. There was something that needed to be verbalized, he knew - probably should have been declared often and at length, if Bruce were the kind of man who found speaking of that kind of thing easier. Because God knew, anything less than an outright statement would be taken by the reserved teen with a grain of salt. 

"I meant what I said today. In the courtroom," he started, causing his companions to blink at him. 

"I hope you know, Tim, that your presence has never been - _will_ never be - unwelcome," he explained.

The young man's eyes widened. Bruce figured - hoped - the surprise was more from the rare _directness_ of the statement… and not the idea itself.

(Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce caught the look of pride and approval Alfred angled his way, but he didn't look away from the teen.)

Tim's expression softened. "Thanks, Bruce," he said. And then, mumbled into his plate so that Bruce almost - _almost_ \- missed it:

"I'm starting to get that." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygosh you guys!!
> 
> Funny story. I had a _crazy_ amount of fun writing the judge's bit - I got to put on my 'pompous speechifying' hat (it would be a wig, but powdered white ringlets just aren't my style) and use so! many! clauses. Plus, when I read some of it aloud after rearranging all those clauses, to see if the flow worked, my cat got all _concerned_ and climbed up to paw at my face. Like, 'wut. maam, speek hoomin.'
> 
> Anyway! All that's left is the epilogue - which sets up for the next fic. Thanks for sticking with me!!


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this chapter leans a little harder into the "bittersweet" tag (if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to stop here and pretend I ended the last chapter with a 'and they lived happily ever after!' 😅)  
> ...
> 
> ALSO, I cannot _believe_ it took me so long to get out this chapter which was already like, 85% written. My bad guys ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> (I don't have a great excuse, I was just working on like... everything _except_ this, including writing random one shots that will probably never see the light of day, bits and pieces of my [HDKM 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1793002) \- but not the part that comes next, ofc - went COMPLETELY overboard re-creating an (interactive! it's awesome!) map of Gotham and its 'burbs in google maps, all the way down to the the fictional interstate I headcannon would connect NYC and Metropolis by way of Gotham; plus, doing way more traveling for work than I would really rather be doing, watching playoffs because even though my team HATES ME and just went to OVERTIME in game SEVEN, I can't help it; fighting an insurance appeal like the semi-functioning adult I am, visiting my gma 5hrs away now that her assisted living center is finally allowing visits etc. etc.)  
>   
> TLDR; Sorry for the wait! 💚💚

That night in his bedroom - the sumptuous bedroom with the red curtains that Bruce and Alfred both made crystal clear would be his for as long as he wanted it - Tim racked up another hit on his latest bookmark. Like he had a dozen times since his birthday, and even before, he clicked through the screens until his mouse hovered over the blue button labeled "purchase" - but this time, he didn't stop there. 

When the confirmation page appeared, he lingered for a long moment, half expecting to have to fight off buyer's remorse. Instead, he felt more than a slight thrill of anticipation. 

_No turning back now,_ he thought to himself, then snorted. (Because. That wasn't exactly _true;_ he could, of course, but once Tim overcame his own indecision he knew he _wouldn't.)_

Pulling up the half-compiled list of 'To-do's, he got started. 

(Of course, there was _one_ thing missing from the list - not because Tim hadn't thought of it, but because it was so glaringly obvious he couldn't forget. But, as long as there were other items to check off, well…)

(The irony was not lost on Tim: the fact that he was using an organizational technique to enable his penchant for procrastination.)

So he read over his research, fleshing it out a little. He compiled schedules and made checklists. He ran errands, updating his wardrobe to be something a little more versatile and yet compact. He contacted Mr. White and Mrs. Mac, who was the only remaining staff member caring for the Drake estate, as well as notifying his bank. In between, he was spending nearly half his days hanging out with Ives and Callie; now that annual-family-vacation season had come and gone, both had the rest of summer break to themselves.

Finally, his list was all crossed out and there was only one thing left to do: actually share his plans with the other residents of Wayne Manor. 

So, he printed off the ticket confirmation, and went to find Bruce.

Tim hesitated outside the half-open door to the study. _It's not like you need his permission,_ he reminded himself, before knocking tentatively. 

“Come in,” came the answer. 

When the knock came, Bruce didn’t _immediately_ worry. Even if it was more common for Tim to find him in the den, where it could be reasonably brushed off as a coincidence, it wasn’t that he’d _never_ sought Bruce out in his study. 

But Tim’s hesitant manner and the way he sat gingerly in the other overstuffed chair quickly had him straightening, shuffling his files to the side as he examined the teen. 

“Something on your mind?” he asked, striving to sound casual. 

(For that indeterminable period, between finishing his evaluation of Tim's body language, and actually hearing what he had come to say, Bruce felt a stirring of dread - the sudden fear that, somehow, somewhere, he had miscalculated. Because he'd thought - well, he thought that Tim understood. Was on the same page, even. That, just because the emancipation went through, didn't mean anything had to change.

But.

What if he was wrong?)

Bruce couldn’t help but brace himself, as Tim opened his mouth.

“I’m - I’ve decided to travel abroad,” he said.

(For a second, in the aftermath of his brain jumping to conclusions, Bruce could only blink. Then, like an overworked transmission, he belatedly switched gears.)

“What’s this?” he asked, noticing the paper Tim held, creases forming from his grip. 

“It’s…” he paused, hesitating before holding it out. “My confirmation. I fly out Sunday.” 

Bruce took the slip of paper when it was offered mostly out of habit. Then the words clicked, and he scanned the document quickly. The largest text jumped out from the rest.

> **CDG.** DEP AUG 23. 6:25PM.

Bruce recognized the airport code for Paris’ Charles de Gaulle. Then he frowned, stiffening despite himself. 

“This is… one-way?” 

“Well, Paris is more like a… jumping-off point?" The smile Tim flashed was somewhat crooked. "I’ve - heard the Louvre is overrated. Who knows, I may decide to move on to London or, or Breslau in a week." He shrugged. “Should be easy enough to book the return by phone from anywhere.”

And why - why was it that Bruce’s mouth suddenly felt dry.

“How long were you thinking?” he asked. “Do you. Need to be back for the start of classes?”

Tim gave another shrug, not quite meeting Bruce’s gaze. “I didn’t sign up for any for the first semester. I figure - I’m not exactly about to fall behind anytime soon.”

And, well.

He certainly had a point. 

(And - it was a normal thing to want to do, surely. Teens took gap years all the time… didn’t they? )

(Bruce wouldn’t know about normal.) 

So he gave a smile, hoping it didn’t look as strained as he felt. 

“Well,” he offered. “We better go warn Alfred. Let him know that you may be… a few months tardy to Sunday dinner.”

_(The smile Tim gave him was like the sun. Bruce doesn’t put it together until much later - what it was, exactly, that he said so right. It seemed obvious to him, a given. That there would be more Sunday dinners. That Tim would be at them.)_

_(In hindsight, Bruce is_ very _glad he never voiced the thought that Tim might have wanted to return home to the Drake Estate. The seventeen-year-old might have taken it_ exactly _the wrong way.)_

As it was still early afternoon, they found Alfred setting out tea things. 

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, with a curious lilt in his voice and a quirk to his brow as he invited the pair to join him. 

"Tim has some news," Bruce shared as Alfred finished pouring a third cup. Then, taking pity on the teen when he gave a look like a deer in the headlights at the old butler's sharp-eyed focus, he added, "He has decided to do some traveling." 

"Is that so?" Alfred prompted. Even if his carefully neutral intonation didn't set off Bruce's alarm bells, but the slight clatter of tea cup against saucer when he froze for a fraction of a second did. Bruce abruptly realized his mistake.

(If he’d taken even a minute to think, spent a single thought on something other than trying to smother his own anxieties, he wouldn't have allowed Timothy to just. _Spring_ the announcement that way. If he had bothered to consider their history at all, Bruce would have had an inkling of how Alfred might react. But he hadn't.)

The teen looked confused, gradually tensing up, when the Englishman's initial response was a - somewhat stony - silence. That sharp, grey-eyed gaze turned on Bruce, who had to suppress a wince at what he read on his surrogate father's face. 

"And you have nothing to say about it?" Alfred questioned. Caught between Scylla and Charbydis, Bruce hesitated only for a moment. 

"Only that... it's Tim's decision," he said.

Alfred didn't raise his voice at all - but then, the man who raised him never _had_ needed to yell at Bruce to express his anger… or disappointment. 

Abruptly, Alfred excused himself. The sound of his chair, when he pushed it back to stand, was muted to a mere whisper on the oriental rug - though, Bruce figured, a harsh scrape would have been more tonally appropriate. 

Pausing on the verge, the older man pointedly addressed only one of the room's occupants. "Master Tim. Please enjoy your tea."

Bruce itched to go after the Englishman immediately, but wasn't about to leave Tim to stew and work himself up - especially over something that wasn't his fault. He cleared his throat to capture the teen's attention, whose shoulders were tight with anxiety. 

"I don't - it wasn't my intention to upset anyone," he said, before Bruce could marshal his thoughts.

"It's not exactly anything _you_ did," Bruce assured. Tim shot a skeptical look. "In actuality, it is my fault. I should have said something. Warned you - or, possibly, Alfred."

Tim tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Then, you - know why he was mad?"

Bruce felt his mouth quirk into a bitter half-smile without his permission. He sighed. 

"Because. When I wasn't much older than you, I did the s- something similar. Booked a one-way to Tbilisi." 

In the pause, Tim eyed him as if sensing the catch, and not for the first time Bruce wondered just how much that ice-blue gaze saw. 

"It was… over six years before I returned home,” he finally admitted. The teen's eyes widened. 

"That - that’s hardly fair," Tim protested, for once sounding close to his own age. Tone morphing from distressed to exasperated, he continued, "I'm not going to drop off the face of the planet." 

Bruce inclined his head, “I understand. You are merely keeping your plans flexible. So - if you agree - here’s what I think…”

Bruce didn’t have to go far to find Alfred; he was in the kitchen, aggressively washing pots and pans by hand in testament to his frustration. After a moment of tense silence, he turned a hard stare on his former ward.

“What was it you told me that first day? Do you remember?”

The first thing that popped into Bruce’s head was a facetious comment; something about having Alfred to do his thinking for him. But then he realized with a pang what Alfred meant, just as the man opened his mouth to parrot it back.

 _“‘He’s not like me,’_ you said.” Alfred’s voice was both steady and packed with emotion. “Do you want to rethink that one _now_?” he all but demanded.

“No.” 

The butler dropped his rag. His hands were shaking, and Bruce knew - because he _knew_ Alfred - that it wasn’t fear, or old age, but the iron grip he was keeping on his anger that caused that tremor. 

“I stand by it,” Bruce said, quietly. “He’s not… he doesn’t have the self-destructive tendencies I had back then, Alf. I know you see it, too. 

“I recognize how similar it must feel to you, and I… have probably not said it enough, how sorry I am for what I put you through in those years.”

Alfred twitched at the apology, not quite a full-on flinch but a noticeable movement, and his eyes are maybe a bit wider than usual. 

_(They don’t… really say these things to one another, and Bruce_ knows _he could,_ should _do better. That there's so, so much more he should have said; should_ still _be saying.)_

_(But it's a start.)_

“You may be right about Master Tim, Master Bruce. But-” The rare tremor in his hands, made from holding back the fire of his anger, was gone. But his eyes - and his voice when he continued - contained, if anything, _more_ worry than before. “There are a great many more dangers in the wide world than just ones' self.”

“So we will keep an eye on him,” Bruce offered. "I- _We_ have a great many more resources available to us than you had back then. And I’ve spoken with Tim. I thought - he deserved an explanation. He’s a good kid. Agreed to check in, regularly, so we wouldn’t worry.” The rueful half-smile he gave at Alfred’s snort showed they were in complete agreement about just how much concern they'd be feeling either way.

The Englishman sighed, shoulders falling slightly, but he nodded - more in resignation than agreement. 

"I suppose I have an apology to deliver, then, to the young Master."

The twenty-four hours before Tim got on the plane to Paris passed quickly, agonizingly slow, and then too fast. The evening before Ives' surprised him with a meticulously planned last-minute game night, the other teen lamenting that, by the time Tim got back, the others would once again be slaves to the New Jersey public school system.

Despite not climbing into his bed until well after midnight, Tim's internal clock woke him to morning sun streaming through the gap in his half-open curtains. His pre-caffeine brain failed to process what day it was until halfway through his coffee, just barely managing not to choke on the hot liquid when it finally registered. 

After that, the day seemed to move at a glacial pace. Tim changed into his travel clothes, comfortable chinos chosen over shorts despite the Gotham summer heat as a concession to the probable chill at 30,000 feet over the Mid-Atlantic at midnight. He tied his red button-up around his waist as well, to have it handy for the flight, then busied himself double- and triple-checking his packing list. 

After the fourth time he added - and subsequently removed - a third spare phone charger, Tim realized he was in danger of ruining his painstakingly calculated utility-to-weight ratio. In need of some other distraction, he went to go see if Alfred might put him to work. 

Bruce found him first, catching Tim outside the library.

"Tim! Looking forward to your trip?" he asked. 

"Yeah, I'm…" Tim hesitated, searching for the right word to describe the not-quite-butterflies feeling in his stomach.

"Excited? Nervous?” Bruce inclined his head. “Little bit of both?"

The teen gave a rueful smile. "Little bit of both," he agreed.

“Tell me about it?"

(And. It wasn’t that they _hadn’t_ talked about Tim’s travel plans. In fact, there had hardly been any _other_ topic of conversation over the dinner table, the last few nights. 

They'd discussed logistics from international calling cards, to foreign transaction fees. The name of Janet Drake’s personal travel agent; the nearly pristine passport with ten-year-old Tim's shyly grinning photo. They'd talked embassies, and public transportation; packing lists and international power adapters; currency exchanges, language barriers, and half a dozen other things.

But - as Bruce had somehow guessed - none of _that_ was what had Tim's stomach feeling like an over-shaken can of Zesti.)

(Tim thought of the rest of his research - lists compiled over hours scouring the library's collection of travel guides, and the various blogs and articles he'd found on the web: from where to find the best Americano in Italy, to the largest arcade in Europe.

And so he did.)

Bruce listened attentively as the teen finally let his enthusiasm bubble over. His friends would have been happy to listen, he suspected, about the museum dedicated to vampires just outside of the 19th arrondissement, but Tim felt awkward, like he was boasting about this opportunity few 17-year-olds would even think to dream of.

And if, when the older man replied with comments from his own experiences, or shared a memory from his time abroad, he did so with that subdued air that spoke of guilt, well… Tim knew where it was coming from, and let it pass unspoken.

When it was time, Tim fetched the bags from his room while Alfred brought the car around. When he made it back down, camera bag over one shoulder and duffel on the other, Tim blinked to find Bruce slipping into the seat behind Alfred's. (Then again, it was a Sunday - obviously, he wasn't busy. Could be that the pair were headed into the city after they dropped him off at departures.)

Tim fetched his bags from upstairs while Alfred brought the car around. when he reached the car, a gleaming silver Mercedes, he blinked to see Bruce slipping into the backseat. (Then again, it was a Sunday afternoon, and he obviously hadn't been busy.) 

His duffel went in the back, but he chose to keep his camera bag at his feet. As Alfred pulled down the drive and out of the Manor's gates, turning west toward the airport, Tim relaxed his head against the address and gazed idly out the window. It had been years since the open sky had seemed overwhelming; Even longer since Tim called the dance, almost claustrophobically urban heart of downtown home. But the difference in scenery on the north side of the river still felt unreal on sunny days like that day. 

As they wound down Crest Hill Road, the patches of woods on either side send to almost nothing. Following the state highway upstream toward the freeway, a sporadic mix of paved and gravel turn offs slowly gave way to true suburbs, and then the more urbanized sprawl around Mooney Bridge. The on-ramp looped up to meet I-97 just as the interstate began to arc up over the river. The bright, cobalt blue of the highway information sign drew Tim's eye, where it hung over the southbound lanes like the menu board at his favorite coffee bar.

 _'Gotham, 6 miles,'_ It proclaimed, and: _'Metropolis, 127'_. 

The car rolled smoothly down toward the fire bank, and Tim straightened from his slouch as Alfred took the next exit toward Gotham International. 

Departures was bustling, travelers of all ages scurrying with their suitcases from taxis, shuttles, and the parking deck toward the terminal entrance. With the kind of luck that made Alfred seem like magic, the butler slid neatly up to the curb outside an entrance.

With the kind of luck that called Alfred's muggle status into question, the Englishman slid neatly up to the curb outside an entrance. The car's occupants opened their doors with a series of

cascading clicks, emerging into the near sweltering air of summer.

Before Tim could attempt to unload his own luggage, Bruce spoke. "Well," he offered as Tim shrugged the strap of his camera bag neatly across his body, 'I hope you enjoy your trip.. and find whatever it is you are looking for," he Offered, steady hand reaching out to grip Tim's shoulder a comforting weight. 

And I trust you remember our agreement, and shall keep to it," he added, somehow both teasing and 100% serious.

Tim pursed his lips into a smile. 

“Out of curiosity… what would you even _do_ if I didn’t?"

The broad hand on his shoulder gripped, briefly, before releasing. Bruce raised a singular brow, reminding Tim strongly of Alfred despite his larger, _wider_ build. "I suppose I'd have to come find you."

"What, and drag me back? I think that counts as kidnapping, now,” he said, the relaxed slope of his shoulders and thin-lipped smile betraying his amusement. 

"Perhaps, but-” Bruce smirked, just a little. “If I stuck close enough, I imagine you would get on a plane eventually - out of sheer misery, if nothing else.."

The statement surprised a cough of laughter out of the teen, just as Alfred rounded the vehicle with Tim's maroon and grey duffel in tow. 

Tim accepted the bag, shrugging easily into the duffel's convertible backpack straps. "Thanks again for the ride," he smiled at the older man. 

"Nonsense," the butler dismissed, shrugging off the gratitude as was his custom. Tim resisted the urge to roll his eyes, even as Alfred looked at him with a combination of amusement and exasperation.

"Still," he tried to insist, even as the other man continued. 

"If you must insist, I will inform you I shall accept today's fair only in the form of original photography." Tim blinked in surprise. In the following moment of silence, the kindly man prompted, "have you chosen digital or traditional film for this venture?"

Curious, Tim answered, "Oh, uh. Digital. I figured - a few extra memory cards were more easily portable than a slew of canisters."

"Wonderful. Postcards are all well and good, however, I have heard rumor of this new stampless postage called email with near-instantaneous delivery."

The desert-dry tone of his delivery made a true grin split Tim's face, and Bruce failed to suppress a near silence snort of humor. 

"All the better to avoid late fees?" he returned.

"Quite."

The brief exchange was the best goodbye - or, really, 'see you later' - Tim had thought to hope for. Still, with the mixed swarm of nerves and excitement bubbling in his chest, Tim was struck suddenly brave. Before he could think better of it, the teen darted in for a quick, one-armed hug, shrugging under the man's right arm then slipping away again in a flash. 

"Bye!" he offered, cheeks suddenly flaming with heat he determinedly blamed on the summer sun - and then he was off.

 _Hello, World,_ he thought, quoting the first program he'd ever learned to write _._

_Prêt ou pas, me voilà._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh. So, part 1 is done. What do you think??  
> Honestly, for me, Tim was never _not_ going to spread his wings a bit... although I felt occasionally guilty while working on this like I was stealing y'alls happy ending.  
> (I'll try and get the first part of the next fic out sooner than it took me to finish this up, i promise! 😅)

**Author's Note:**

> FYI updates on this are gonna be random & sporadic, because it's not my only WIP and my work is (unfortunately) considered an 'essential industry' despite the pandemic. So hit the 'subscribe' button if you want, or, if you are not a member of the archive but would like an invite, feel free to hit me up over at [@daemons-not-rogues](https://daemons-not-rogues.tumblr.com/)


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